


ever so slowly; all at once

by sheesusnat



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Domesticity in the form of cooking together, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Sharing each other's space, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Very Protective Morgan Rielly, dysfunctional family dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheesusnat/pseuds/sheesusnat
Summary: Mitch wants to tell Morgan that he deserved better. He wants to tell Morgan that if it were up to him, Morgan would be the Captain. He wants to pet his always-messy hair down, wants to pull him into a hug, wants to make him smile again.And then all at once, like the shock of dropping into an ice bath, it hits: holyshit. Mitch is in love with Morgan.
Relationships: Mitch Marner/Morgan Rielly
Comments: 164
Kudos: 391





	1. Chapter 1

Mitch always knew that he was going to sign a new contract with the Leafs. He doesn't want to go anywhere else--who doesn't want to play for their childhood team, in their hometown?--but there were so many other factors, so many other parties getting involved. It was complicated and messy, but he's so glad that all of the questions about salary and term and cap hit are answered. 

So this is a new season, a fresh start, and after a long and stressful summer, Mitch is signed and ready to move forward. He's determined to prove that he deserves the contract he inked. And with his future in Toronto sorted out, there's a new source of drama: are the Leafs finally going to name a Captain?

The night before the Leafs' home opener, Mitch gets a text from Kyle Dubas, asking him to be at the arena at 9AM, an hour before practice for what he calls a meeting of the "leadership group," which after all the hand-wringing from the media, Mitch can only assume it's about who will get to wear the C. Mitch has his opinions on the matter, but he's pretty sure neither Kyle nor Babs want to hear them.

He arrives at the arena at 8:50, and as expected, Morgan is already there, coffee in hand, and Mitch would bet that it's likely not his first of the day. At the last minute Auston joins them, hoodie pulled up over his head and dark circles beneath his eyes. It's been a hard week for him, and though Mitch would never say as much, he can't bring himself to feel much sympathy.

Mitch is surprised that John is late--he's never late--but realization dawns when Babs comes into the locker room to escort the three of them to Kyle's office. The meeting confirms Mitch's suspicions: John isn't there because John is the one getting the C.

Auston takes the news well, he apparently hadn't expected much else, especially considering the current news cycle. But Mitch keeps an eye on Morgan. He smiles when Kyle and Babs rave about his play last season, when they tell him how important he is to the team both on and off the ice. He nods in agreement as they go through the compliments for both Auston and Mitch as well. He keeps his face neutral while Kyle explains the rotating A for Mitch and Auston. As always, he's mature and supportive. But that's just who Morgan is. 

Mitch himself never expected the C--he isn't the face of the franchise like Auston, he isn't the veteran leader the way JT is, and he's not the longest tenured Leaf, the one who has been through the bad times like Morgan--so he's mostly just honored to have an A on his jersey for half of their games. He's almost surprised, he wasn't necessarily expecting it after the contract dispute. Mitch suspects that Auston knew he lost any chance for the C the minute the news of his incident back home dropped.

Morgan, though, is a different story. He never said as much, but Mitch knows how much he wanted this. He knows what it would have meant for Morgan to have that letter on his jersey. He's toeing the team-first line as always, but Mitch knows he has to be disappointed.

After practice, they're asked about the captaincy but they've all been sworn to secrecy, and to an outsider, no one would imagine Morgan is anything but thrilled about the upcoming reveal. He says the right things to the media, gives a sly grin and refuses to share even a hint. As usual, he's the consummate professional.

Once they're off the ice and have finished handling the press, Mitch makes his rounds through the trainers, as he always does; it's rare for anyone else to be at the rink when he finally gets ready to leave. He comes out of the shower and stops mid-step when he gets to the doorway of the locker room. 

Morgan has already showered and changed, but he's still sitting in his stall, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped forward. Mitch watches him silently, because he's pretty sure--no, he _knows_ \--that Morgan wouldn't want anyone to see him like this.

Mitch knows just how much Morgan wanted that C on his jersey, knows just how much he's hurting right now. Mitch wants to tell him he's sorry. He wants to tell Morgan that he deserved better. He wants to tell Morgan that if it were up to him, Morgan would be the Captain. He wants to pet his always-messy hair down, wants to pull him into a hug, wants to make him smile again. 

And then all at once, like the shock of dropping into an ice bath, it hits: holy _shit._ Mitch is in love with Morgan.

Mitch turns on his heel and goes back toward the showers to regain his composure. His first reaction is denial: he's not even gay, he's only ever been attracted to women. He's supportive of the LGBT community, sure, but he's just an ally. He knows guys in the league who are gay, guys who are bi, he's played on teams with them. It's not a big deal. He's just not gay. Probably.

Even in his own head, that defense sounds hollow and weak. He can deny it all he wants, but he knows what he felt. He's not the smartest guy in the world, but he's not an idiot either. Shit. He's in love with Morgan. _Morgan._ The sudden realization still has his mind whirling.

Maybe it wasn't really sudden, though. When Mitch thinks about it too much, he realizes that this has been building for a while; he's just always had excuses before. Morgan is one of his best friends, the easy affection between them is normal. He's a hell of a hockey player, so of course Mitch admires his skill. And he's the drive and determination of the Maple Leafs, that Mitch respects him is a given. Sure, maybe that affection and admiration and respect go deeper than anything he feels for the rest of his teammates, regardless of how talented or highly regarded they are. He's just ignored that part.

Mitch takes a few steady breaths, standing with his back against the wall and his gaze up at the ceiling, and talks himself down from panicking; nothing's changed, really, he's the same person he always was and Morgan is still his friend. They're no different now, only that Mitch has finally put words to the feelings that, if he's honest, he's had for a while.

He makes plenty of noise when he leaves the showers this time, so Morgan knows he's there, knows that he's coming. Mitch wants him to have time to compose himself, to put the mask back on. When he enters the room this time, Morgan has a grin tilting his mouth. 

"Made your rounds through the entire training staff, eh?"

"You know it." Mitch answers, giving him the finger guns and immediately regretting it. Auston would've mocked him for that. Morgan gracefully does not. "Gotta make sure the old bones are ready for the opener, bud."

Morgan laughs, as if he wasn't just a few minutes ago having a private crisis in this very room, and rolls his eyes. "Oh yeah, you're a grizzled old vet now. See you tonight, Mitchy."

And then he heads out, leaving Mitch alone with his thoughts. He's not sure if he's grateful for that or not.

____

Mitch has spent his entire life around hockey and he likes to think that by now, he knows how team dynamics work. He spends nearly as much time around his teammates as he does with his family, and he's gotten to know them pretty well. He knows what music Freddie likes. He knows what restaurants Goat likes to go to. He knows that if he chews too loudly Auston will definitely threaten to punch him in the face. Team becomes an extended family, in a way. You know them, and they know you.

The problem he's having now, though, is that Mitch realizes maybe he doesn't know _himself_ as well as he thought he did. Because he's always been pretty positive that he was straight. He's always dated girls. He never had feelings for any of the guys he knew in school, none of his teammates in juniors. Okay, sure, he took part in some questionable circle jerks but he's pretty sure that's a rite of passage in the amateur hockey ranks. 

He's currently re-evaluating everything he thought he knew about himself, however, because all of a sudden he's thinking of someone--a guy, a _teammate--_ in a very much more than friendly way. Or maybe it wasn't all that sudden. Maybe Mitch has just been ignoring the signs for a very long time. Maybe it's been happening in slow increments that Mitch has decided to overlook.

He may have just twirled around how his face went warm when Morgan started calling him "Mitchy" instead of "Marns." Perhaps he two-stepped away from the skip of his pulse when he overheard Morgan defending him to the media during a slump. He might have waltzed by his breath catching when he watched Morgan, dead on his feet and crushed under yet another defeat to the Bruins, still pacing the locker room to support his teammates, showing a strength that Mitch was sure he didn't possess himself.

And now he's thinking in dance metaphors. Not even good ones, like flossing. Old timey shit like "waltzing." He's pretty sure this is some symptom of insanity.

In any case, now Mitch has to deal with two issues: first, he's not nearly as straight as he always assumed, which is quite a revelation in and of itself. And then, secondly, there's the not-insignificant fact that he came to that discovery because he just really, really wants to kiss one of his best friends.

He really wishes his biggest problem was making awkward dance metaphors.

____

He spends the next month just trying to keep it together. Things on the ice definitely don't go the way the team had hoped for, so hockey keeps him distracted. As much as he wishes they were winning more, he welcomes the preoccupation and the madness of the schedule. 

Canadian Thanksgiving passes in a rush, a quick dinner with his parents where he barely eats because he's too busy listening to his father's criticism. In other words, it's the same as any other holiday, and Mitch is all too happy to get back on the ice instead. Too busy with hockey and ignoring his feelings, a week out from Halloween he realizes that he doesn't have any ideas. For some reason, a group of them decide it's a good idea to let Auston pick their costumes for the team party. Auston decides that he would make an excellent Oscar the Grouch, and he obviously needs a crew of Sesame Street character friends. Freddie seems a pretty solid choice as Big Bird and while Tyson is new to the room, he jumps at the chance to be Cookie Monster; if Mitch is being honest, he'd say that one is pretty accurate as well. 

And then at their last practice before the party, Auston drops a bag in Mitch's stall. "You're gonna make one hell of an Ernie, bud." 

"What? Why am I gonna be Ernie?" Mitch protests, pulling out the costume to get a look at it.

"You're not serious enough to be Bert! Mo's gonna be way better at that."

"Wait, Mo's gonna be Bert and I'm gonna be Ernie?" He blinks up at Auston, who is oblivious to Mitch secretly freaking out about his feelings regarding Morgan. "Who decided this?"

Morgan strolls into the room at exactly this moment and Auston shoves a bag at him. "You're Bert, by the way. Mitch is Ernie."

Morgan glances at the bag, then at Auston, and finally at Mitch, a smile quirking one side of his mouth. "Oh yeah, Mitchy's definitely Ernie."

"What? He's the weird one!"

"Took you long enough to catch on," Auston says, and at the same time Morgan turns to give Mitch a deadpan stare.

"Oh fuck both of you," Mitch mutters, and he's not pouting. He's _not_. 

"Better get some eye black to make that unibrow, Mo." And then Auston's gone, and Mitch realizes that he's definitely not getting out of this.

____

Morgan offers to drive Mitch to the Halloween party, because he's Morgan and is always looking for ways to help. Mitch doesn't have a good excuse to decline so he puts on his ridiculous Ernie costume, face painted orange and hair stuck up wildly, and meets Morgan in front of his building. Morgan looks equally ridiculous, poorly applied yellow makeup and a hastily drawn black line connecting his brows which are normally just this side of invisible. The striped, v-neck sweater is a little snug on him, and Mitch does his very best to not stare.

"So we're definitely not letting Matts pick Halloween costumes next year, right?" Morgan asks as he pulls onto the road, checking his mirrors before glancing at Mitch.

"Oh no, next year we should pick for him. He's an idiot."

The thing about this whole stupid crush problem is that as conflicted as Mitch is internally, just _being_ with Morgan is easy. He's always got a wide, open smile and he laughs at every joke, no matter if it's actually funny. He asks Mitch what's up and he really means it; he truly wants to know what's going on in Mitch's life. That their friendship is so effortless makes everything simultaneously better and worse. Conversation flows comfortably as they drive to the party and then when they arrive, Morgan sticks close to his side for the entirety of the night, and Mitch isn't sure if he's suffering from it or reveling in it. 

Maybe he's just a glutton for punishment. 

Morgan spends the whole evening nursing a single beer before switching to water ("enjoy yourself, Mitchy, I'll be the DD"), but he's still willing to dance when Mitch drags him over to the floor, both singing along loudly with Rihanna. They take a hundred pictures together, sometimes with the rest of the Sesame Street crew, but more often just the two of them. The later it gets, the more Mitch slides past tipsy and into drunk, and the heavier he leans into Morgan as the camera snaps. 

By the time they leave, Morgan is supporting most of his weight on the walk out to his car. 

"You were a good Bert, Mo." Mitch is staring at Morgan instead of the road as they head back to his place. "Auston was right."

"I am never telling Auston you said that." 

"No. Neeever tell Auston he's right. About anything. No no no." Mitch agrees, shaking his head rapidly and immediately regretting it. He braces one hand on the armrest between them and closes his eyes until the dizziness clears. When he opens them, Morgan is stopped at a red light and watching him. 

"You okay, Mitchy?"

Mitch gives a sheepish smile. "Just dizzy. Stop making the car spin in circles. Jeez."

Morgan grins and moves his hand from the gear shift to squeeze Mitch's wrist for just a moment. "Got it, no more donuts in the middle of Queen St."

He moves his hand away too fast and Mitch just wants him to put it back. He isn't going to say that out loud, though, so he finally forces himself to look up at the road. The silence stretches between them but it's not an uncomfortable one. Mitch reclines his seat and yawns largely, only paying half attention as the streetlights and signs pass by, and he's surprised when Morgan pulls to a stop outside of his building.

"Can you get up to your apartment alone or should I park it and carry you up fireman style?"

Mitch scoffs and puts his seat up again. "I am perfectly capable of getting upstairs, it's a revolving door and an elevator ride, _thank you very much_." Mitch says it with conviction, but when he climbs from the car he stumbles forward a step. He laughs off the embarrassment and waves off Morgan's obvious concern. "I really am good. Go home, get some rest." 

"You sure you're okay, Mitchy?"

"I'm good, Mo. Thanks."

Morgan rolls his eyes, but his smile is fond. "Don't thank me, bud. I just don't wanna be responsible if you wander into an empty elevator shaft." 

"Well thanks for the concern, but I'll be fine, pinky swear." Mitch holds up his finger and if his hand wavers a little, Morgan doesn't mention it.

He does reach over across the passenger's seat to latch his pinky with Mitch's though. When he lets go, Mitch stumbles forward a bit, his equilibrium swooping for a moment before he can brace his hands. When he looks up, Morgan is very close, brows knitted together. There's a beat where Mitch is just looking in his eyes, noticing that Morgan has a hand splayed against his chest to hold him in place. 

Mitch finally composes himself, laughing bashfully and shaking his head. "I'm _okay_ , I am. Go home."

Morgan looks unconvinced, but he doesn't turn off his car. "Go drink a ton of water and get some sleep."

Mitch makes it up to his apartment without incident (apart from missing the button for his floor on the first try, but Morgan doesn't need to know about that) and when he's stripped out of his costume and wearing comfy pajamas, he takes a picture of the two bottles of water next to his bed and sends it to Morgan.

_I've got water and I'm safe in bed, just as you ordered. Gnight Mo._

Twenty minutes later a rumpled looking Morgan sends a selfie in response.

_Good boy Mitchy. Night._


	2. Chapter 2

"Morgan, I'm _fine_."

Mitch sprained his ankle three nights ago and already he has received three care packages from Morgan. The first day it was a bag of takeout from Mitch's favorite restaurant, the next he came with coffee and a bagel. Today Morgan is here again, but Mitch isn't actually sure why, other than nagging him for standing up once in a while. Okay, and he also brought enough groceries to feed the Marlies' roster.

"You aren't supposed to be on your feet, but you need to have stuff in the house. You shouldn't be out getting groceries with the boot on."

"Dude, I don't actually like, cook for myself. The takeout was great, thanks for that. But you brought me stuff to make like four meals. Who exactly is gonna cook it all?" Mitch is sitting at the counter that separates the kitchen from the living space in his apartment, waving around at the empty room. "There's just me here. Unless you're gonna hire me a chef too, that stuff's going to go to waste."

"It's chicken and vegetables and pasta, it's like the easiest stuff in the world to make." Morgan puts two boxes of whole wheat pasta on a shelf in Mitch's pantry that otherwise has two bags of microwave popcorn and a couple varieties of beef jerky. 

"Does it look like this kitchen has ever been used for anything other than cereal?"

Morgan turns to face him, incredulous. "Are you serious? You're just going to order delivery the whole time you're recovering?"

"That's the plan, yeah."

Morgan rolls his eyes and huffs out an exasperated breath. "Okay, nope, that's not gonna happen. Pack some shit up, stay with me until you can at least go get food."

"Wait, what? No." Mitch slides off the chair and grabs his crutches, careful to keep the weight off his bad ankle. "I don't need a babysitter." 

"Just a chef."

"We live in _Toronto_ , do you know how many restaurants deliver to my place? Hundreds. Hundreds of restaurants will deliver to me. I don't need a chef, and I definitely don't need to cook for myself." He makes his way to the couch and flops down on it, putting his ankle up on a pillow and laying a blanket over himself. He's not going anywhere. 

The last thing he needs is to spend 24/7 around Morgan. He's already spent too much time in Mitch's space since he was hurt, checking up on him, getting the specifics of his prognosis, making sure there's nothing he can do to help. He appreciates the veteran leadership or whatever it is Morgan is doing, but it's overwhelming.

"Well then I'll go get my shit and come over here." Morgan shrugs. "Although you probably don't even own any cooking utensils."

"Morgan, you aren't moving into my place for a month because I sprained my ankle."

Morgan is digging through the drawers in the kitchen, as if Mitch never said anything. "Okay so you at least have some spoons and a decent knife set. Have you ever even used them?" He turns to kneel, opening cabinets to find the only saucepan that Mitch owns. Mitch never even washed it, just took it out of the box. "Christ, how are you an adult without a baking pan?"

"Because I make enough money that someone else can cook for me," Mitch answers dismissively. "You're not moving in with me, it's a sprained ankle, I'm not dying. Besides, you're going to be on the road for like, half of my recovery time."

"I'm not leaving you here alone with just delivery food and video games. I can make you meals for when I'm gone. Though that would be easier if you were at my place." Morgan has his determined face on, and maybe it's just a conditioned response after spending three years in a locker room with him, but Mitch is having a hard time continuing to say no.

"One week." Mitch finally agrees, letting it out on a sigh. "I'll come stay with you for a week. But after that I'm coming back here and you're gonna have to get over this whole Papa Bear thing."

Morgan considers it and then nods. "I'm still buying you a baking pan."

____

Mitch definitely should have protested this more.

It's not that he's not used to being in close quarters with Morgan. They've shared lots of space over the years: changing out of sweaty gear in stalls that face each other at home, and of course the showers on the road, in visitor's locker rooms that are always lacking for privacy. It's just a very different thing to see Morgan in his own element, early in the morning with bedhead and sleepy eyes, late at night in a cozy hoodie with a glass of wine and an open book on his lap. It's soft and domestic and Mitch isn't sure how he's supposed to handle an assault like this. 

For all that this apartment is only a rental, it _feels_ like Morgan. It's clean but with a little clutter--mail he didn't file away, an empty bottle of wine left on the counter--and there are glimpses of him everywhere. There are photos of his family, of his dog, framed jerseys with his and his friends' names on the back. There's a plaid throw tossed across the couch that smells like Morgan's cologne, and Mitch hasn't been able to resist wrapping himself in it.

This is Mitch's own fault, he knows, feeling this way. He knew before he agreed to it that this was dangerous, that he didn't need any more reasons to crush on Morgan, and yet here he is. He also told Morgan that he was only staying for a week, but that was ten days ago. Morgan hasn't mentioned it, so Mitch isn't in any rush to leave, no matter how self-destructive it is to stay. 

He'll go home when the team goes on their road trip out west. By then he'll be able to move around better on his own, he'll be fine in his apartment by himself. He'll get distance and he can get his defenses up again, being separated from Morgan for a couple of weeks. It'll be good for him.

But then the coaching staff suggests that Mitch joins the team for the trip, so he can keep not only his own spirits up, but he can act as cheerleader for the team as well. It's embarrassing how fast he agrees to the idea. Truth be told, he hadn't been looking forward to spending the better part of two weeks in his own place, alone, eating just mediocre delivery food. Morgan's kitchen skills are basic, but a home-cooked meal is always better than something from a restaurant.

The first game of the trip is in Pittsburgh, not even an hour-long flight, so no one bothers to get too comfortable on the plane, and they only have one night in town. Most of the younger, single guys go for dinner together, and Mitch makes a point to sandwich himself at the table between Kappy and Willy. Morgan ends up sitting across from him, though, so it's not much of a relief. 

They get blown out by an injury-riddled Penguins team and the trip from Pittsburgh to Vegas feels even longer than the four and a half hours it takes, because no one dares make too much noise or appear to be enjoying themselves too much. Auston put his airpods in at the airport and hasn't looked up from his phone since they took off. The older, married guys are all at the back of the plane, darkened and silent as they try to sleep their way through the flight. The tension is thick and even over the hum of the engines, it feels as if everyone is too nervous to speak.

Mitch is leaned back in his seat, the leg with his sprained ankle stretched out into the aisle of the plane, finally starting to doze halfway through the flight when there's a tap on his forearm. When he blinks his eyes open, Morgan is sitting in the backwards-facing seat in front of him.

"Feeling okay?" he nods at Mitch's ankle. 

"Little sore, but I'm alright."

"Put it up, the pressure change stuff probably doesn't help."

"Mo, it's a sprained ankle, I don't think air pressure affects it." Mitch rolls his eyes, but he's not actually bothered. It's nice to feel taken care of. "Just moved around on it a lot today, that's all."

Morgan shakes his head and shifts over one seat, leaving the one directly in front of Mitch open. "Up, you're probably supposed to have it elevated. Want me to get an ice pack?"

Mitch doesn't even argue; he's used to doing what Morgan tells him to on the ice, and it's starting to seep into his life off of it. He pulls his leg up and rests his foot on the seat in front of him and Morgan gives a satisfied smile. 

"See? That's gotta feel better." Morgan slides his hand around Mitch's ankle and gives a light squeeze, not enough to trigger the tenderness there, just a warm, comforting pressure. Mitch wouldn't ever ask for it, but he really wants Morgan to just keep his hand there.

Twenty minutes later as he jolts awake after dozing, he realizes that Morgan hasn't moved, his fingers are still looped around Mitch's ankle. After that, Mitch sleeps the whole way to Las Vegas.

____

While they're away from Toronto, Mike Babcock is fired, and shortly after that news breaks, there comes the bombshell drop about the way he'd treated Mitch. It's not a surprise for anyone in the locker room, not the team or most of the media types who are around all the time, but to the national media, to Leafs fans and those around the league, it's a very big, capital-S _Story_.

So to say the road trip out west is "interesting" would be a pretty big understatement. They finally get home with a new head coach and a couple of wins, but Mitch's phone has been lighting up with interview requests, questions from Leafs' PR, along with plenty of messages of support from guys he knows throughout the league. Mitch had done a pretty good job of putting all of... _that_...behind him, and he wishes the whole story would go away already. But since he knows there's no chance of that, he's already agreed to meet with the media after he goes for a skate on his own the next morning. 

It doesn't help that his apartment suddenly feels empty, sterile. It was professionally decorated and he has a cleaning service come in every week to keep it looking that way; only he's realizing that he misses the clutter, the coziness of Morgan's place. So he might take a picture of a fanned out pile of delivery menus and he might snapchat it to Morgan and he might be fishing for an invite for dinner, but he'll never admit it.

But hell, it works.

"We just spent a week on the road and your first night back you're gonna do delivery food?" Morgan doesn't even wait for Mitch to be fully inside before he starts chirping him. "You watched me make dinner the whole time you stayed here and you didn't pick up anything?"

"Why cook my own dinner if I can con you into doing it for me?" Mitch steps out of his shoes and walks through the kitchen, picking a cube of roasted potato off of a pan sitting on the stove. 

"You're gonna burn yourself, dumbass," Morgan scolds, but there's no fire behind it. Mitch can hear the smile in his voice without even turning to look.

Morgan isn't a gourmet chef by any means, but the chicken isn't too dry, the potatoes are crisp from the oven, and he even managed to make broccoli taste okay, so Mitch figures he must be doing something right. They keep conversation light while they eat and Mitch tries to help him clean up, which Morgan refuses ("you're still healing!"), so he ends up just watching while Morgan rinses their plates and loads them into the dishwasher. Morgan offers a glass of wine, saying things like 'oak barrel' and 'grapes from Napa;' Mitch accepts, nodding along. Sure, he's been to Napa as well, but it doesn't mean he actually picked up on any of that. It tastes like every other wine he's ever had, but he doesn't say that out loud. 

They settle on the couch, Morgan on one side of the sectional and Mitch at the opposite, sitting sideways with his foot up on the cushion between them. They put on the Canucks and Flyers game, and Mitch groans when the first topic in the intermission is the "bombshell news about Marner and Babcock." Morgan scrambles to change the station and switches to something appropriately irrelevant, some HGTV show with a couple trying to buy a house wildly out of their price range.

"Mitchy?" Morgan says after half the episode has passed, breaking into the comfortable silence they had going. "You gonna be okay tomorrow? You can probably just 'no comment' your way out of the whole thing if you want."

Mitch stares at the wine in his glass, tipping it one way and then the other. "I mean, it's probably better if I just say something, right? It was a long time ago, you guys were all great about everything. I'm okay now, no use bringing up bad blood."

It's more than that, but Mitch has tried to push it down and ignore it for so long, talking about it now is about as much fun as the physical therapy he's doing for his ankle. He spent the first year after the confrontation apologizing profusely to anyone he inadvertently singled out. After a while, Naz threatened to dump Icy Hot in his jock if he said sorry again. Mitch hasn't talked about it since.

"I'm just saying, if you want to put it out there before the presser that they can't ask Babs questions, you can do that. Just answer stuff about your injury." Morgan has his concerned face on, brows furrowed and forehead creased. "You don't owe them any answers about this stuff."

Mitch half-smiles, touched by the sentiment but unable to muster a full grin. A lot has changed since Mitch entered the NHL, but Morgan's unwavering support has never been in question. Tomorrow will suck, but it's nice to know Morgan will be there if he needs him. "I'll be good, Mo. I swear. If they get too invasive, I'll shut it down. But thanks. It's good to know you've got my back."

____

Somewhere between Mitch getting hurt and his return at the beginning of December it becomes a Thing. More often than not, either Morgan will find him at the rink or Mitch will get a text a little after lunch. Morgan will tell him what he's making for dinner and ask if Mitch wants to come over. Mitch never turns it down.

He starts keeping track of what Morgan makes--chicken, pasta, vegetables mostly, sometimes steak, and occasionally he experiments with salmon--and Mitch sets up a grocery delivery with all of it, so he can feel like he's not entirely mooching. The first time he shows up with an arm full of grocery bags, Morgan looks at him like he's insane. "It was my turn to get all this stuff." Mitch insists, setting the bags on the counter. "You always do the cooking, so I figured I'd bring the food."

"You didn't have to do that," Morgan unpacks everything and puts it away, and Mitch tries to keep a mental note of where everything is, so he can help next time. It's only fair. "I don't mind making dinner for you."

"And I enjoy eating it, but I can't totally freeload off of you. So. Groceries." Mitch grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge, tipping it toward Morgan with an arched eyebrow, silently asking if he wants one. Morgan shakes his head, and it makes Mitch feel some kind of way that they've reached the point where they can communicate without words. "I could like, cut and peel stuff too. I'm not a complete waste in the kitchen, I helped my mom cook for Christmas and stuff."

Morgan eyes Mitch for a moment and then turns around, grabbing a cutting mat and a large knife and setting them in front of Mitch. "If you cut your finger off, I'm never going to stop making fun of you."

Mitch gasps. "What? You're doubting my sous chef abilities?"

Morgan hands him a red pepper and a bunch of asparagus. "Damn right I am, you didn't even have a box of pasta at your place. Slice the pepper, cut the asparagus into 2 inch segments. Carefully."

Mitch flips him off, but he does as instructed. It takes him longer than he wants to admit, and they are in no way uniform, but when he's finished, there's a somewhat respectable pile of vegetables. "See, perfectly acceptable chopping skills. What are we making anyway?"

"We?" Morgan looks over his shoulder with one brow raised. " _I_ am making stir-fry. Cutting two vegetables doesn't count as cooking." 

"I could help, tell me what to do!"

Morgan shakes his head and knocks Mitch's baseball cap off. "I'd like to be sure we can actually eat this. Find a bottle of wine. White works best. Probably something dry."

Mitch looks through the bottles and finally takes out his phone; Google tells him that a Sauvignon Blanc is a dry wine, so he picks that one and hopes for the best. He pours two glasses and sits at the counter again, watching Morgan while he cooks. He talks a lot while he works, sometimes to Mitch, sometimes to himself as he reads off of a recipe on his tablet.

"The veggies might be a little too soft, I didn't time them right," he explains as he serves the stir-fry into two bowls over brown rice. It looks perfectly fine to Mitch.

"Looks dietician-approved to me," Mitch says, digging in and taking a bite, hissing as it burns his tongue. When Morgan looks up concerned, Mitch gives a nod and talks around the mouthful of food. "Ish good!"

"Such a gentleman, Mitchy." Morgan laughs and settles down next to him, tearing open a soy sauce packet that was definitely from some previous takeout sushi. It makes Mitch feel a little better that Morgan isn't _that_ much more put together than him.

There's enough left in the pan that Morgan puts it in two containers and slides one to Mitch. "Lunch for tomorrow." He tucks his own leftovers into the fridge and refills their wine before starting on the dishes.

"Nope, I've got it. I'm officially off of IR so you're off the hook." Mitch takes the sponge out of Morgan's hands and nudges him out of the kitchen. "Go find something to watch. And if you put on Kitchen Nightmares again, I'm unplugging the TV."

"Gordon Ramsay is a goddamn hero, Mitchy, you just don't appreciate his genius."

____

"Mitchy?"

Mitch jumps at Morgan's voice, even though it's soft, barely above a whisper. He looks blearily around the room--the TV is off and the only light is coming from Morgan's bedroom down the hall--then back at Morgan.

"Oh shit, sorry man," he sits up, rubbing a hand over his face. "Shouldn't have done that last glass of wine."

"I just didn't want you sleeping on the couch, it's comfortable but not _that_ comfortable."

Mitch yawns and stretches out his shoulders. "No, you're right. I should probably head home anyway. What time is it?"

"Little past midnight. Just stay here, yeah?" Morgan nods toward the guest room. "New sheets on the bed. You can drive us to the rink to make up for it."

Mitch should go home, but he's tired, and it's late, and he's wrapped up in the throw that smells like Morgan. He nods and follows Morgan down the hall. 

"There's a pack of spare toothbrushes in the top drawer in the vanity," Morgan explains. "My dad always leaves them home when they visit. I can grab you some pajamas, they're gonna be huge, but they've got drawstrings. And, uh, there's a comforter on the bed already?" He's nodding at the blanket still wrapped around Mitch's shoulders.

Mitch isn't awake enough to care if he's being weird, so he tightens his hold on the throw. "I like this one."

"Whatever makes you happy, Mitchy."

Morgan disappears into his room and Mitch half-assedly brushes his teeth and rinses his mouth out, and he's in the process of stripping out of his own hoodie just as Morgan returns, plaid pants and a worn-looking Nike t-shirt in hand, and he might blush when he sees Mitch. But the room is dark and Mitch is pretty sure it's just wishful thinking. "I, uh, wasn't sure if you wanted a shirt too, but I brought one in case." 

"Thanks, I owe you."

"Coffee's on you tomorrow," Morgan agrees, handing off the clothes and backing out into the hall. "Night, bud."

Mitch has to tighten the drawstrings to nearly comical levels, and the t-shirt is too big, but he climbs into bed wrapped up in Morgan's clothes and smelling Morgan's cologne on the blanket from the couch. It's wonderful and terrible all at once, the best kind of torture. 

He's definitely going to steal the t-shirt, but Morgan doesn't need to know that.


	3. Chapter 3

It's nearly a week into December, and Mitch is dying to get back on the ice. He's been spending time around the team and he's enjoying the newfound lightness surrounding them now that Keefe has taken over, but it's not the same as playing. This morning, though, Mitch started the day meeting with the team doctor, and he officially got the all-clear to return to action. Despite knowing the room might be tense after the Leafs lost to the Flyers by an ugly score of 6-1, Mitch enters with a spring in his step.

"No. Absolutely not." Morgan says about whatever conversation was already happening. "No way we're letting Auston plan the Christmas party." He's already dressed after practice, standing in front of Freddie's stall, gesturing animatedly. 

"He's the only one who's offered so far. How bad can it be?" Freddie shrugs.

"Do you remember when he insisted we all go to that art exhibition that turned out to be a room full of naked people who had stuff painted on their skin?" Willy calls from the doorway.

"Or when he thought it would be a great idea to go axe-throwing after we'd pregamed with tequila?" Mitch offers.

"Okay, okay," Freddie holds his hands up in surrender. "So we're not letting Auston plan the party, but who is going to? We could see if JT and his wife wanna host, but he's got the baby now."

Morgan looks over at Mitch, then back at Freddie. "We could do it at my place. You game to help, Mitchy?"

Mitch suddenly has the attention of the entire room. "Uh, do you really wanna trust me to plan a party, guys?"

"Well no, of course not. But if Morgan hosts, you can help him and it'll be fine." Kappy throws a ball of tape at Mitch when he flips him off.

"Sure, whatever, I'm in. Just tell me what to do."

"Do whatever Morgan says," Freddie claps Mitch on the back as he walks past him out of the room. "And under no circumstances take any advice from Auston."

"Hey!" Auston exclaims, fresh from his press obligations, and very out of the loop. "I give excellent advice!"

The room goes silent for a moment and then everyone starts laughing.

____

Morgan doesn't even greet Mitch at the door anymore, just calls out a greeting from the kitchen when he hears him get in. "Get your ass in here, I need these tomatoes halved."

Mitch hangs his jacket in the closet and takes off his shoes and follows his voice. "Calm the hell down, I'm coming. What are we making?"

"I'm making, Mitchy. _I'm_ making, you're just cutting tomatoes." Morgan nudges a container of cherry tomatoes across the counter to Mitch. "It's basic shit, pasta with grilled chicken, spinach and tomatoes. I need those for the sauce."

"You know it takes me like 20 minutes to get over here at rush hour, why'd you start cooking so early?" Mitch takes out a cutting board and the knife he's gotten used to working with and goes about halving the tomatoes. It's harder than it looks.

"I was hungry, it's not all about you, bud." Morgan pulls the pasta from the water, taking a bite of a piece of spaghetti, wrinkling his nose and putting the pasta back. "Hey, sorry for putting you on the spot about the Christmas party thing. I just figured you're here all the time anyway, we could manage it together."

Mitch is glad he's got a toque on, pulled low over his ears, because they've gone warm. "Right, sure. Easier if we both work on it together. You're running the show on it though, I'll go buy the stuff you tell me to."

"And decorating. My mom usually comes out before Christmas, but she can't make it. So you're on the hook to help me decorate. I've got my tree and all that out of storage, it's in the living room." Morgan takes the tomatoes as Mitch cuts them, tossing them in a pan and stirring them around. 

They eat at the coffee table, Morgan opening boxes and storage bins between bites. By the time their plates are clean, the room looks like a glittery gold and red bomb went off. "It's on you to get the tree set up, I'll do dishes."

"I've got a dishwasher, all you're doing is rinsing stuff and loading it in there. You're totally helping with the tree." 

Mitch sighs dramatically as he carries their plates into the kitchen. "Okay, fine. Unbox the thing, we'll set that up so it can settle."

"See, you're getting into the spirit of it." Morgan clicks around on his TV to a music app and turns on a Christmas station. When Mitch looks from the kitchen to the living room, Morgan's grin goes soft, sheepish. "Look, when my mom comes and we decorate, she always wants Christmas music going. It's tradition. Deal with it."

Mitch really doesn't have the defenses to deal with this.

"If they play Wham, we're turning it off." Mitch says as he rejoins Morgan, who is currently assembling the base for the tree. "Okay, what am I doing?"

"Dude, it's an artificial tree, you know how to put it together." Morgan nods in the direction of the pile of the longest branches. "Fluff those so they look decent and then hand them off to me." 

Mitch doesn't want to talk about how he really doesn't know all the ins and outs of putting up a Christmas tree. His parents didn't do the cutesy family thing for the holidays. They bought pre-decorated trees and most of the holidays were spent with Mitch's dad asking questions about his coaches and his training regimen. He knows he lived a pretty privileged life; they never had to worry where the money would come from to get him new skates or sticks, whether he could afford to go away for tournaments. But this kind of cheesy, movie-montage decorating stuff might have been pretty nice too.

"And there we go, we've got a tree. First step of the Christmas party planning is done. Next night we're off we can get it decorated." Morgan folds up the box and shoves it into the hall closet. He taps a finger on his lower lip and looks around the room. "I have a wreath for the door, and we could string the lights up on the mantel." 

"You realize that no one is going to pay any attention to the decorations, right? As long as we have good food and alcohol?" 

"It's the _ambience_ , Mitchell."

"Whatever you say, you're the boss here," he says, and holds out a hand for the wreath Morgan pulls from a storage bin. Mitch fixes the bow at the bottom and makes sure all the fake holly berries are attached before he hangs it on the door, and as soon as he gets back, a tangle of lights is thrust into his hand.

"Good luck with those, I tried to wrap them up carefully last year, but they look pretty bad right now."

"What? I get stuck untangling lights? I didn't sign up for that!" Mitch grumbles, but he sits on the couch and gets to work on them anyway.

Morgan holds up his own bundle of lights. "There's more where that came from. We'll need a bunch for the tree too."

They work in silence for a while, and Mitch is pretty damn proud of himself when he looks at the floor between his feet and the impressively untangled string of lights sitting there. He's about to brag about it when Morgan speaks up.

"Uh. Mitchy? A hand?" Mitch looks over and Morgan has got both of his hands wrapped up with green cord and tiny LED bulbs. "I have no idea how it got this bad."

"Oh man, you're a mess." Mitch takes out his phone and takes a picture, which Morgan is clearly not happy about. Once he sends that to the Leafs' group chat, he goes over to sit on the coffee table in front of Morgan. "Hold your hands out, let me fix this."

"Don't get all smug, we still have a bunch of bundles of lights, you're gonna end up just like this too." Morgan is trying to be surly, but he's a grown man tied up in Christmas lights, so the effect isn't quite there. 

Mitch takes the end of the string that he can find and starts tracing it to where it knots back on itself at Morgan's wrist and slides it free. Then he pulls a loop of lights off from Morgan's middle and ring finger. He works loose one snarl at a time, chirping Morgan's pathetic detangling skills the whole way, until he finally has Morgan's entire right hand free. "There we go, can you untangle the _other_ hand or should I keep helping…?" 

Mitch trails off when he looks up because he hadn't realized how close he'd gotten while he worked on the lights. He nearly has to cross his eyes to meet Morgan's. He's also still got Morgan's left hand on his lap. 

"Um. I think I'm good, thanks." Morgan looks up to the TV, down to the floor, and he shifts back on his seat and unwinds the last of the strand of lights from his left hand. "So, yeah, two strands of lights done. I can probably just get the mantel done by myself tonight, if you don't wanna keep doing this stuff."

Oh no, it's weird. Mitch made it weird. "No man, I told you I'd help out. I can stick around and keep untangling lights while you hang that stuff up."

Morgan jumps up and digs out a box full of hooks to hang the lights on. He's still looking at absolutely anything but Mitch. "Yeah, sure, if you wanna keep working on those. Seems fitting that you'd be better with that, eh? Soft hands."

They do manage to finish untangling the rest of the lights, and Morgan does a pretty damn good job of decorating around the fireplace, but despite the twinkling lights and cheerful Christmas music, the night drags on, full of forced banter and a buzz of tension that Mitch can't seem to shake.

____

For all the awkwardness that night, at practice the next morning it's as if nothing has changed. Morgan is surly, sure, but he usually is until he's several cups of coffee deep. If anything, though, he's less grumpy with Mitch than the rest of the team. Mitch likes to believe that it's a good sign.

The following two weeks involve Mitch running a lot of errands for Morgan. He goes in search of specific silver garland that Morgan says they absolutely have to have to finish decorating. ("You've got like five bundles of red garland." "It doesn't _match_ , Mitchy!") But when he lets himself into Morgan's place carrying two bags full to bursting with more garland than either of them could possibly use, the smile on Mo's face is worth the trip to two different stores.

The apartment finally decorated--it's over the top, if you ask Mitch, but Morgan is damn proud of it--they settle down to sort out the rest of the details. Food and alcohol, which are probably far more important than the excessive number of Christmas lights covering every inch of Morgan's living room and kitchen.

"So we need to come up with a menu, right?" Morgan has an honest-to-god pad and paper sitting in front of him. 

Mitch levels a gaze at him. "A menu? Do you know our teammates? They care about the alcohol way more than whatever variety of chips we put out to snack on between Molsons."

"We can't just have chips out!" Morgan protests, horrified. "We need some actual food!"

"Got it. Veggie tray." Mitch snags the notepad and scribbles it down. "Maybe some cheese cubes and crackers too."

Morgan lets out a groan and pulls the paper back toward him, leaving a line of ink stretching across the sheet from halfway through the word 'dip' that Mitch had been in the process of writing. "That's the lamest thing ever, don't we want it to be, like…classy?"

Mitch arches one eyebrow as dramatically as he's able. "So you wanna do a catered dinner when you are gonna have one Travis Dermott in here wearing what I guarantee will be the most not-safe-for-work Christmas sweater that he can find? If we were having a dinner party for just JT and his wife, sure, fancy meal. This is a bunch of hockey players. Maybe we can plan some nicer apps, but I'm vetoing anything more upscale than that."

Morgan waffles, tapping the tip of the pen on the pad as he stares into space, lip caught between his teeth. "Okay, you're probably right." He makes a face when Mitch beams, and if Mitch didn't know him so well, he'd miss the softness in his tone. "Don't get smug, eh? You're just more in tune with the bros on our team."

"You hang out with us all the time. Don't _you_ get smug just because you're a fancy wine drinker." Mitch reaches for the tablet again, but Morgan puts both hands flat on top, covering Mitch's fingers. Mitch knows there was something he planned to say next, his mouth already open, but the words die on his tongue as he stares at Morgan's larger hand over his own, fingertips a bit calloused as they press into his skin. "We, uh. We should get those barbecue meatballs. From that place."

The chuckle that breaks Morgan's silence is a little deeper, a little quieter than their conversation thus far has been. He finally tugs the notepad fully out of Mitch's reach with his left hand, the right one still holding Mitch's hand back. "The meatballs from that place," Morgan says, and Mitch really wants to believe the delay in his response is the same overwhelmed reaction as his own, and not just Morgan trying very hard to not laugh at him. "Helpful, Mitchy."

"You know the place I mean, there's one on Yonge and on Front Street too." Mitch pulls his hand away, attempting to not look as panicked as he feels. "They probably cater, we could order a whole bunch of those. Just like, finger foods and stuff, yeah?"

Morgan is jotting down notes. "Yeah, that wouldn't be too bad. And we could get a few salads too." When Mitch makes a face, Morgan flips him off. "Oh fuck off, even if none of the guys eat them, the wives and girlfriends will."

"Okay, you've got a point. A couple of big family style salads too." Mitch peeks over at Morgan's list, trying not to lean too close. "And then we can just buy some veggie trays, and then like, maybe some pepperoni and cheese and crackers and that basic party stuff."

Morgan rolls his eyes but writes all of it down anyway. "I think that covers it mostly, and we'll get a few cases of beer, some rum and vodka and mixers for that stuff. I've already got the wine covered."

"Yeah yeah, I know. I'm in the presence of Morgan Rielly, the very fancy and mature wine connoisseur," Mitch teases. "But don't we need some kind of sweet?" 

"Oh man, we should do cookies." Morgan's eyes are bright. "Do we want to make them or buy them?"

"Make them? Are you suddenly a baker too?"

"I mean, not from scratch, but like we could get the dough and bake them. And we could decorate!"

His enthusiasm is endearing as all hell, but Mitch doubts their abilities. "Really, you think I'm artistic enough to decorate cookies? And didn't you just skip the decorating and eat the icing straight from the bag last year?"

Morgan's cheeks go pink and he looks down at the pen in his hands. "Okay yeah, that happened. But we could totally do it if we really tried."

"We could just order cookies that already look good. And they'd probably taste way better."

"What a Scrooge you are. Where the hell's your holiday cheer, Mitchy?"

Mitch groans and puts his head down on the table, playing up the dramatics. "Oh my god, fine, we'll decorate cookies. I'm still ordering actual good ones from somewhere."

"Hey, being festive is at least half the fun! They don't have to look good, you should see the mess we make when I'm at home with my parents." 

"You have had very different holiday traditions with your family than I have with mine. My dad would be _horrified_ at the idea of doing something poorly." Mitch means for it to be a joke, but it comes out too serious for that, and all of a sudden he's got Morgan's eyes on him. "It's just, um, you know. My family doesn't really do the whole, like, Hallmark movie holiday thing." 

It leaves a lot unsaid, but it's nothing Mitch wants to talk about. Morgan looks like he's going to press for a moment, though he seems to realize Mitch's reluctance. After some hesitation, he instead gives a wide smile and reaches over to ruffle Mitch's hair. "See? Even more reason for us to decorate cookies. You can experience the Hallmark bullshit that way."

"I'm only in on this if you wear something ridiculously festive. Like, I want reindeer horns and a red nose. You've gotta go all in if we're doing this."

"You're on, Mitchy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So toward the end of this, Mitch mentions Morgan just eating...straight up icing, and I couldn't find a gif of the moment, but over on Twitter there is a clip of it that Steve Dangle posted, and it felt important for everyone to see it. 
> 
> [@Steve_Dangle: Here's @mriles4 eating straight icing. After I stopped recording Mike Babcock goes “Stay light!”](https://twitter.com/steve_dangle/status/1070407638943391744)


	4. Chapter 4

"What in the _actual fuck_ are you wearing?!"

"Well, the website called it the 'Meowy Catsmas adult men's onesie.'" Morgan turns so Mitch can see it in all its glory, and indeed, it's a onesie for a grown-ass man, with fabric that's covered in pictures of various cats wearing Santa hats. He's also wearing a hat of his own, complete with a bell at the end that tinkles every time he moves his head. "You said you expected me to go all out."

"Okay yes, but I wasn't expecting _that._ I figured you'd go with something more like this." Mitch shrugs off his jacket, holding his arms wide so Morgan can read his sweater: _Kiss me under the mistletoe_ with a large sprig of the stuff and an arrow pointing down at his groin. 

Morgan's face is red when he turns away, but he's chuckling--it might even be categorized as a giggle--and he swings his head to make the bell on his hat ring again. "That is not appropriate Christmas wear, bud, but I'll let it slide, because we've got three dozen cookies to decorate."

"Three dozen? Are you insane?" Mitch follows Morgan into the kitchen anyway. "I figured I'd only have to decorate a few."

"We want to make sure everyone has at least two cookies, that's what the planning website said."

"Yeah and I ordered four dozen from Bakerbots, so that's way more than enough." Mitch sighs and rolls up his sleeves, looking at the array of icings and sprinkles that are strewn across the wide island that separates the kitchen and living room. "You greatly overestimate my decorating ability, these are going to be awful."

"That's kind of the point, though." Morgan has gone to the trouble of getting the icing in fancy looking piping bags and he's unpacking stacks of cookies in various shapes: trees and ornaments and gingerbread men. "It's way more fun if they look ridiculous. What's funny about perfectly decorated cookies?"

"So we're doing this with the express purpose of sucking at it?" Mitch asks warily. It probably explains why this was never a tradition for his family. His dad wouldn't be thrilled at the idea of doing something without the intention of being the best at it.

"Yep," Morgan answers cheerily, grabbing a bell-shaped cookie and the yellow icing. "Like you're going to try to make them look good, of course, but like, I'm not an artist and neither are you. So they're not going to actually be good. But that's the fun of it."

Mitch is skeptical to say the least, but he picks up a tree and the green frosting. Sure enough, his attempt is pretty hideous, the icing is falling off of one side and the lines where he tried to make it look like branches are sloppy. But then Morgan looks over and his eyes light up. "That's not bad, Mitchy!"

"Well it's not _good_."

Morgan rolls his eyes and displays his cookie as if he's a model from _The Price is Right_. The cookie is a glob of yellow frosting and white sprinkles, but it definitely doesn't look like a bell anymore. It kinda looks like a yellow boob. With white sprinkles. Mitch tries but he can't hold back his laughter.

To his credit, Morgan takes no offense. "Hey, hey, it's a bell, it's yellow, that's the color it's supposed to be!" 

"It looks like you made a titty. That's not any bell I've ever seen." 

"So you make one!" Morgan pushes one of the bell shapes at him and crosses his arms over his chest. Morgan is rarely intimidating, but especially not when he's wearing a _onesie_ covered in _kittens_. "Let's see you do it better."

Mitch has never backed down from a challenge and he's not about to stop when it's over something as simple as decorating cookies. He takes his time with it, uses yellow icing around the outside and white inside of that, and he very carefully sprinkles yellow colored sugar on just the top and bottom of the bell. It's not pretty, but it's at least recognizable as a bell. "There. I definitely did better than you."

Morgan tilts his head and examines the cookie. "Okay, I'll give you marks for going two-color frosting. It's not perfect though."

"Okay then, you do a tree, see if you can outdo mine." Mitch picks up one of the trees and places it in front of Morgan.

Morgan seems just as determined as Mitch was. He works slowly as well, gingerly piping green frosting around the outline of the cookie first, muttering curse words beneath his breath when he has to use his finger to clean up one of the edges. He has the tip of his tongue stuck out to the corner of his lip, his forehead creased in concentration. Morgan finishes with the frosting and reaches for a jar of small candy circles, and it's honestly comical watching him pick up the tiny balls one at a time with his fingers, the absolute embodiment of focus. Mitch is thoroughly charmed.

"Done!" Morgan says finally, gesturing to the cookie. Even Mitch has to admit it's pretty good, though he's not going to be quite so forthcoming with that praise; chirping Morgan is way more fun.

"Well it's better than the bell," Mitch says, his voice trailing off.

"It's better than your tree!" Morgan shrieks, grabbing one of the candy 'ornaments' from his cookie and tossing it at Mitch's face. "You're just totally bitter that I beat you!"

"Only on that one, so it's a draw. My bell was way better than yours." Mitch swipes his finger through the icing on Morgan's bell cookie and wipes it on Morgan's hand. 

"Oh no, we're not having a frosting battle, we've only finished four cookies, and you just messed one up." Morgan licks the icing from his hand and grabs another cookie to decorate.

They manage to make it through the first dozen cookies without incident. Mitch is starting on a gingerbread man when there's an air pocket in the icing and it sputters out into a messy blob where the face should be. "Oh what the hell," he mutters, swiping the frosting off with his fingertip. 

"Hey, you could've just left that, it would probably be better than that wreath cookie you made," Morgan chirps, his smile playful.

Mitch turns slowly to glare at him. "Just remember that you started this." He leans over and wipes the frosting on Morgan's cheek, smushing it down into his beard. Morgan tries to jump back but he only manages to knock over an open jar of non-pareils. "Oooh, look at the mess you made!"

Morgan lunges for him but Mitch is quicker, grabbing a pastry bag full of blue frosting and wielding it like a weapon. "Go ahead," Mitch says, his voice going deep in his best Eastwood impression. "Make my day."

A moment later he's being tackled against the kitchen counter and trying to twist so Morgan can't get the icing out of his hand. "If you get that all over my kitchen, you're helping me clean it up!" Morgan threatens, but he's laughing too hard for it to be effective.

"You say that like you weren't gonna rope me into cleaning up anyway," Mitch counters, squirming to get a better grip on the piping bag. "I always do the dishes when we cook!"

"When _I_ cook, bud. You just cut vegetables sometimes. I cook, you clean. It's only fair!"

Morgan takes this moment to shift his grip around Mitch's torso and Mitch takes the opening, squirting a blob of blue frosting that smears across Morgan's face and drops down to the collar of his onesie. "Ooh, what are you gonna do now?"

"Oh, you're done, Mitchy." Morgan steps back and grabs the red bag of frosting and runs at Mitch with it, but Mitch ducks under him and skirts around to the other side of the island. "Like I'm not gonna catch you? Because if you get frosting all over my living room, you're paying the next time they come to clean my place."

"You are terrible at making threats," Mitch rolls his eyes, then swirls out a blob of frosting into his hand and grins menacingly. "But don't worry, because you're gonna be cleaning icing out of your hair for a week." 

He lunges toward Morgan, smashing the frosting into his hair as promised, but Morgan is able to wrap both arms around him and lift him off the ground, which leaves Morgan with his hands occupied and unable to duck away from the assault. Mitch crows with laughter as he smushes the blue frosting into Morgan's hair, fashioning it into a sticky mohawk. He looks _ridiculous_ in his kitten onesie and his too-long hair stuck up in a bright blue point atop his head. Objectively it's terrible, but it's a sign of how far gone Mitch is because he finds it adorable.

"You're _dead_ ," Morgan exclaims, but he's laughing through it as he tries and finally succeeds at capturing both of Mitch's wrists. Mitch keeps trying to wipe more of the frosting on anything he can reach--Morgan's hands, his face, the front of his ridiculous onesie--but eventually Morgan spins him, holding him so that Mitch is hugging himself in some semblance of a straight jacket. Only Mitch's arms aren't the only ones wrapped around him; Morgan's got him in a tight bear hug, his broad chest pressed against Mitch's back. 

Morgan is laughing, breathless with it, the sound right behind Mitch's ear. He's warm and solid, not dramatically taller than Mitch, but where Mitch's listed weight of 175 is generous, if not an outright lie, Morgan carries every ounce of his 219 pounds, if not a little more. This is most certainly an unfair fight, especially given that Mitch is now all too aware of the tickle of Morgan's breath against his neck, distracted with noticing how his body slots in against Morgan's. He is at a disadvantage on every level.

"Just wait until I get you back for this," Morgan threatens, but his voice has dropped quieter. It's probably just that he's trying not to shout directly in Mitch's ear. That's all it is, Mitch tells himself, trying to get his stupid pulse under control. 

"Oh no," Mitch deadpans. "I'm terrified."

Morgan shifts his grip around Mitch, one arm wrapped tight around both of Mitch's, just low enough that he can't get any leverage to squirm free. "Nope, you got me with the frosting, it's your turn now." He grabs the red frosting again and chuckles mischievously as he aims the piping bag at Mitch's face. "Any last words?"

Mitch does the very first thing he can think of, his last ditch effort to throw Morgan off so he can get free. He cranes his head back and licks a swipe right up through the frosting on Morgan's cheek. Morgan sputters and turns his head away, laughter bubbling up. 

"Are you outta your mind?" Morgan sets the icing down but he doesn't let Mitch go, instead he wraps both arms around him once more, angling him so he can't lick him again. 

"Hey, we both know this isn't a fair fight, I had to think fast!" Mitch is now trying to squirm out of Morgan's arms, because he absolutely does not need to get used to what it feels like being held by him.

"So you _licked_ me?" Mitch can't tell if Morgan is exasperated, amused, or disgusted, but his voice sounds...funny. Different than Mitch is used to. 

Mitch finally slides out of Morgan's grip, quickly darting to the other side of the island, needing some distance between them. He's got some of the blue frosting on his fingers still, so he licks that off while he watches Morgan wipe his face with a towel. "Hey, it worked, don't question my methods."

Morgan throws the now blue-stained towel at Mitch and laughs, his eyes still clouded over, but his smile wide. "You're replacing that, by the way."

"Yeah yeah, you're just upset you lost." Mitch says, wiping his hands off. 

"How did I lose?" 

"Only one of us has a frosting mohawk right now, buddy. I'd say that's you taking the L." Mitch takes out his phone and snaps a picture of Morgan, blue in his hair, some stuck in his beard, a streak of it down the front of his cat onesie. He starts to put it in the team's group chat, but decides against it. That picture is for him alone.

The momentary distraction is just enough for Morgan to exact his revenge. When Mitch looks up, Morgan smashes the original bell cookie--the one that looked less like a bell and more like a breast--directly into Mitch's face. "Ha, there we go. Even now."

Mitch wrinkles his nose and pulls the cookie away. "That's not even close to even. I got you way better!"

Morgan watches him for a moment, thoughtful. And then suddenly Mitch finds himself pressed against the island and Morgan is licking a slow, deliberate line through the icing on his cheek. Mitch doesn't have a chance to hold back the gasp and the soft 'oh' that escapes him.

Just like that, Morgan is out of his personal space again, but he's got his eyes on Mitch, a grin tugging the corner of his lips. "Okay, _now_ we're even."

Then he turns down the hall to clean himself up, leaving Mitch wondering what the hell just happened.

____

Mitch is convinced that they've done a pretty damn good job of planning by the time the Christmas party date arrives. The food looks good, there are plenty of drink options, and Morgan's apartment looks appropriately festive. Their teammates are going to have a great time.

It also means that Mitch and Morgan have spent entirely too much time in each other's space. Or more accurately, that Mitch has spent too much time in Morgan's space; he's barely been at home for weeks. Morgan hasn't seemed to mind, however. 

"The cookies are a mess, we should just stick with the ones we bought," Mitch insists when Morgan puts out the tray of poorly decorated ones they worked on together. 

"What are you talking about? These have _character_ , Mitchell."

"They're sloppy!"

"They're staying out."

"I'm telling everyone that they were all your doing," Mitch insists, snagging a cookie from the tray. Ugly or not, they taste okay. "I'm taking no credit for those."

Morgan frowns at Mitch, batting his hand away. "Those are for guests!"

"I'm a guest!"

"Could've fooled me," Morgan counters, swiping at the icing on Mitch's cookie, licking it off of his finger. "You're here all the time."

Mitch elbows Morgan and finishes the cookie in one big bite, talking around it. "You would miss me if I wasn't."

"Oh yeah, I'd definitely miss someone eating all my food." Morgan stands in the way of Mitch grabbing another cookie. 

"Doing all your dishes!" Mitch tries lunging around him. He doesn't really want another, but it's just fun to mess with him. "And cutting all the veggies!"

"I have a literal dishwasher," Morgan wraps an arm around Mitch's waist and hauls him away from the food table. "I don't keep you around as a sous chef, Mitchy."

He pushes at Morgan's chest, and Morgan just pulls him tighter at Mitch's extremely weak attempt to get out of his grasp. "Oh yeah? So why _do_ you keep me around?"

Morgan walks him backward, backward, until he's pressed against the kitchen counter. "Taste-tester, obviously," Morgan says, and he's standing too close, too much in Mitch's personal space. "Gotta make sure there's nothing poisonous."

The edge of the counter is digging into Mitch's back, and he tries to convince himself it's _that_ that's making his breath catch in his throat. It's not that he can smell Morgan's cologne. It's not that he can feel one of Morgan's hands splayed wide along his waist. It's just the granite pushing into his spine.

"You wouldn't risk that," Mitch insists, and he hates how his voice sounds. It's not snarky now, not like a moment before. It's still teasing, sure, but it's closer to a sigh. "Leafs fans would miss me too much."

Morgan's gaze is intent, unwavering. Is he leaning closer? Mitch thinks he's leaning closer. Or maybe he's just losing oxygen. "Just Leafs fans, eh? You think they're the only ones who'd miss you?" 

Mitch focuses very very hard on letting out his next breath without it shaking. "I mean, there might be some coaches, and the guys would definitely be upset if I was gone."

The hand that Morgan has at Mitch's waist slides to the dip at the base of his spine. His fingers are long enough to span most of Mitch's back. Mitch wants to curl into the touch. "You're right on that," Morgan says and now he's definitely closer, and his voice has dropped to something quieter. "You would definitely have some teammates that missed you."

Mitch slides his palms from where they had stilled flat against Morgan's chest, up to his shoulders, down to grip at his arms. Morgan goes tense and then melts a little bit, his head dipping down and his lashes going heavy for a moment. When Mitch trusts his voice again, he speaks. "It seems like there's definitely _one_ teammate who would really miss me."

Morgan's eyes flick to Mitch's, then down at his mouth. Mitch can hear every beat of his own pulse, hyper aware of the feel of Morgan's breath on his face. He closes his eyes to keep them from going crossed, and he leans in.

And then Morgan's doorbell buzzes.


	5. Chapter 5

At the sound of the doorbell chiming, Morgan jumps back and so does Mitch, knocking over a thankfully-closed bottle of Coke. Mitch rights the bottle and then tries to drag in a steadying breath. 

"Right, yeah. People are getting here." Morgan states the obvious.

"Figured that out," Mitch deadpans, staring down at his hands gripping the counter while he tries to calm the pulse ricocheting in his ears. "Thanks for the update."

Morgan huffs in frustration and levels a glare Mitch's way. "I'm gonna buzz them up. You okay?"

_You almost kissed me ten fucking seconds ago, I'm not even in the same postal code as okay_ is what Mitch wants to say. "Yeah, good to roll," is what he says instead.

The tension in the room is cut when their teammates start to filter in, the guys offering handshakes and fistbumps, their wives and girlfriends pulling Mitch into hugs and kissing his cheek, thanking him for his hard work. "No no, I just helped out a little. Mo did most of it. Especially the cookies."

He catches the sidelong glance from Morgan but he turns away before Morgan can see him smirk. Mitch busies himself with bullshitting with Willy and Kappy when they arrive, mostly trying to stay on the other side of the room from Morgan. His skin feels a little electric anytime they're in the same space, and with an apartment full of nosy hockey players, Mitch wants to be sure doesn't let on that anything is different. He doesn't turn down anyone who brings him a refill on his beverage. He might have one drink too many.

Okay, he might have a couple drinks too many.

He's sprawled on the couch and watching the lights on the tree sparkle when he hears Auston talking to Morgan in the kitchen. "Are you sure you don't want me to get him home? He can share my Uber." 

"I barely trust you to get yourself home, Aus. I'm not entrusting you with him too. He can crash on the couch. Won't be the first time."

Mitch sits up too quickly and the lights go blurry. "Hey, I am _here_ and I can make decisions for _myself_ , guys."

Morgan clears his throat and Auston snorts. "Yeah, actually, I'm leaving him here with you. If he's slurring that bad now he's gonna go grumpy or sad drunk soon." He adds a moment later, louder, "It's a party, Marns, be happy!"

"I'm plenty happy!" Mitch protests, and he's well aware that he's pouting.

"Right" Auston snickers and opens Morgan's door. "Good luck, Mo." 

Mitch turns to look at Morgan and moves too fast, has to grasp the arm of the couch. He really is tired; he should lay down. But he should go home first. "I can get an Uber, I'm _fine_."

Morgan rolls his eyes and doesn't say anything, just walks down the hall. He comes back a moment later with a pair of sweats and a t-shirt stacked on top of a pillow and the throw from the couch. The one that smells like him. Mitch pointedly does not bury his face in it when Morgan hands it off. But he wants to.

"Just stay here. I'll get you a couple of waters and some aspirin."

"You don't have to take care of me, I can handle it." Mitch protests, but he doesn't make any effort to move.

"I know I don't have to. Change clothes. I'll be back."

Morgan disappears down the hall again and Mitch does as Morgan said. He's very drunk and Morgan's couch is comfortable and the idea of getting in a car to go to his quiet, empty apartment isn't appealing at all. He's wearing Morgan's clothes and is wrapped in Morgan's blanket and staring at the ceiling when Morgan returns. 

"Aspirin," Morgan says, and Mitch holds out his hand to take the tablets before swallowing them dry. Morgan hands him two bottles of water. "Finish one now, you can have the other for later."

"My dad doesn't even care about me this much," Mitch mutters, and it's more honest than he intended it to be.

Morgan is quiet, but Mitch knows him well enough to know that he heard and understood exactly what Mitch meant. "Get some rest, Mitchy. It's been a long day."

There's a lot going unsaid, between him blurting out about his dad and the almost-kiss from earlier, and Mitch knows that eventually they'll have to discuss it all, but that feels very difficult and scary right now. Morgan's pillow is comfortable and Mitch is so tired. He's asleep before Morgan leaves the room.

____

The first thing Mitch notices the next morning is the smell of coffee. He's facedown on the couch, one leg hanging off, his other foot stuck out from beneath the blanket that smells like Morgan. He's got the headache from hell, but otherwise the hangover doesn't seem too terrible. He shifts up to a sitting position and waits for his equilibrium to balance before he even tries to stand.

"I hope you're good with leftover Christmas cookies for breakfast."

Morgan is already up, standing in the kitchen, barefoot and wearing a team-issued shirt that Mitch is pretty sure he got his rookie year--it's much smaller on him now than it was back then--and a pair of clashing red plaid pajama pants. His hair is flipping up in front. God damn but Mitch likes waking up to this.

"I'm pretty sure that's not on our diet plan, Mo." Mitch grabs a coffee mug from the cabinet, the same one he uses every time he's here. "But I think those rules are bullshit the morning after a team party. Cookie me."

"Well all of our extremely awesome decorated ones are gone, so we've only got the store-bought ones left." Morgan slides the box down the counter to Mitch. 

"I told everyone you decorated those."

"And I told them all you were lying," Morgan shrugs and bites the head off of a gingerbread man. 

Mitch takes a long drink of his coffee and keeps his eyes down, not yet ready to face whatever conversation might be coming. He picks out a cookie that looks like an ornament. "Sorry for getting a little drunk. Never let Auston mix your drinks."

"That's why I go with wine. He can't mess that up for me." Morgan chews for a moment, swirling the coffee in his mug. "And it's no problem, you weren't any trouble. You know I never mind if you stay here." 

Mitch wants to say a million other things. Apologize for his weird comment about his dad. Ask why Morgan is always so willing to let Mitch stay with him. Beg Morgan to finish whatever moment they started just before everyone arrived last night. "Still. Thanks for taking care of me. And, uh, sorry for the weird comment about my dad."

"It's kind of…" Morgan starts and then trails off before continuing, "bullshit. It's kind of bullshit, everything with your dad?" He's treading lightly, Mitch can tell. "We've seen how he is with you, and you don't deserve any of that. You're a hell of a player, anyone can see it. He should see it."

"He means well," Mitch says, and it's reflex by now. It's easier to hide, going on the defensive like this. "He wants to make sure I do everything I'm capable of."

Morgan lets out a heavy sigh and his eyes dart at the floor, his mug, the half-eaten cookie in his hand. When he speaks, it's measured and steady. "I get that, yeah. It's good to be motivated. But the thing is, he doesn't ever like, give you the credit you deserve."

"I've got a whole team telling me I'm great. You guys are always pumping my tires." Mitch finishes the cookie he's holding, mostly to have something else to do with his mouth than talk.

"It's different when it's your dad, Mitchy." Morgan finally levels his gaze on Mitch. "And it sucks that he doesn't support you like that."

"I know." The words are out before Mitch can stop them. He hadn't meant to say it, to agree with him. He's always given the same response when someone questions his dad's methods and actions: it's just a motivator, he means well, it's all fine. Something about today is different. This morning, quiet and laced with tension, wearing clothes that aren't his but are more comfortable than his own, in a kitchen that's become a second home, has worn down his guard. "I know it sucks, trust me. But he's my dad, you know? What am I gonna do about it."

And that's where it always breaks down, because it's family. What do you do about family?

"You could come with me for Christmas." 

Mitch is glad he doesn't have a mouthful of coffee because he would've snorted it all over the kitchen counter. "Morgan, I appreciate this whole leadership thing you're doing, but that's going way above and beyond."

Morgan rolls his eyes. "It's not some 'leadership thing' I'm doing here. I'm not offering as a teammate or alternate captain or whatever, I'm offering as your friend. As someone who thinks you deserve better."

"I'm not following you home for Christmas," Mitch says, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth, his throat feeling too dry to talk. "You've got a great family, I can't intrude on all of that."

"It's not like it'd be the first time, there were junior teammates and stuff, guys who didn't have time to get all the way home," Morgan waves off his concerns with a purse of his lips. 

Mitch meets his eyes. "Thank you, really. It means a lot. But I've gotta do the family thing with my actual family."

Morgan nods slowly, his smile forced. "Got it. Invitation stands if you change your mind." He finishes the last of his coffee and his body language shifts just like that. "I've got some stuff to do today, I can drop you at home if you want."

"Kicking me out, huh?" Mitch goes for the joke, but it feels hollow. The axis just tilted, off-center and Mitch can't seem to figure what went wrong.

Morgan rolls his eyes, but he laughs, so he can't actually be bothered. "You're welcome to stay on the couch for the day if you want, I just thought you'd want your own clothes at some point." 

"Okay, you've got a point. I'll be ready to go when you are."

Forty-five minutes later, Mitch is climbing out of Morgan's car in front of his building. "So, uh, thanks for the ride. I'll see you...later? Practice tomorrow?"

Morgan doesn't answer immediately, but after a beat: "I'm gonna grab stuff for dinner. Wanna come over and help make it?"

Relief floods through Mitch and he can't help but smile. "See you at six."

____

They never talk about the almost-kiss. Morgan doesn't bring it up, and Mitch starts to wonder if he imagined the whole moment. It wasn't really a thing, so he can't bring it up as if it was. So for the last couple of weeks before the break, he and Morgan fall back into their routine. He goes to Morgan's place whenever they're at home and don't have a game, he chops veggies and even takes over stirring duties a few times. He tries to convince Morgan that this means they should share the dish-washing part too, but Morgan doesn't bite on that suggestion.

Mitch stays over more than once. He seriously considers stealing the blanket from the couch. But they still don't talk about the almost-kiss. Mitch definitely, definitely imagined it. 

The last game before the Christmas break is a wild one. The Maple Leafs manage to pull out an 8-6 win, and on the way there, Mitch has a five point night. The locker room afterward is raucous; there's music blaring and Mitch joins with his teammates in some truly awful dancing. (Mitch misses Gards on nights like this. Gards was the only one who appreciated Mitch's moves.)

He catches Morgan before he leaves the arena, just the two of them standing in a harshly lit corridor heading to the parking structure. "Flight going out tonight or first thing tomorrow?" He doesn't need to ask if Morgan is flying home. Morgan _always_ goes home for Christmas.

"Bright and early, 5:25 out of Pearson." Morgan gives a grin, sheepish and maybe just a little hopeful. "Still a chance to change your mind. There's always space at the Rielly table for one more."

"You're just trying to get out of washing the dishes _there_ too."

"You're an expert at it now, I can't compete!" Morgan holds out a hand for Mitch to grasp and pulls him into a half hug. 

Mitch squeezes his hand and wraps his free arm around his shoulders, rubbing over his back. "Yeah, yeah. I'll send you some tips. Have a good holiday, see you in a few days."

Morgan holds the hug just a little too long. If Mitch wasn't so pathetically into him, he would never have noticed. "Have a good Christmas, Mitchy." Morgan's voice is quiet against his ear, so serious, laid bare and earnest. It makes the hair on the back of Mitch's neck stand up. "Don't put up with any shit, eh?"

Mitch forces a laugh and takes half a step back, but he's still got one hand clasped in Morgan's, is still gripping his forearm. "Promise, I'll stand up for myself." 

Morgan meets his eyes and they're still standing too close. Morgan keeps one hand on his back, fingers curled right at his waist. Mitch can see every fleck in his eyes, the intricacies of the scar over his upper lip. "Will you, though?" Morgan asks, a sad smile curling his mouth. Before Mitch can protest, he adds."You should."

There are words running through Mitch's head but most of them are embarrassing, too honest. So he doesn't say anything, he just nods. He squeezes Morgan's hand one last time and then steps back; he needs the distance. 

Morgan nods back, looking as much like he's steeling himself as he is agreeing with Mitch. "Merry Christmas, Mitchy."

"Merry Christmas, Mo."

____

"He should've bag-skated you assholes after that game, who gives up six fucking goals?"

Mitch is standing in the kitchen at his parents' house, sipping on coffee that's still a little too hot, but he'd rather be drinking the coffee than speaking. This has been going on since he walked in, a half hour ago. "Christmas miracle," Mitch mutters against his mug.

"Don't be a smartass just because you had five points. If you'd played a stronger all around game, you wouldn't have needed so many goals to win." His dad shakes his head, disgusted. "And Keefe probably just congratulated you, you kids can't handle a little criticism these days. All this safe space bullshit."

Mitch sighs and takes another drink. "Just because he's not playing mind games with us doesn't mean he's a bad coach."

"He's way more worried about being your buddy than being your _coach_ , but you're gonna love that. No accountability." 

"Dad, can you not? We're playing well under him, everything is pretty good. Can't you trust the process a little?" 

"This shit is why you didn't get the captaincy. Tavares probably knows when to shut the fuck up and listen."

"Jesus Christ," Mitch huffs out a breath. "I didn't get it because we've got a bunch of vets in our room, including guys who have been through a lot more than I have. They still trust me as part of the leadership group."

"That just means there's no one better, you're the best of those losers."

"Alright, we've gotta stop this." Mitch is gripping the mug in his hand with white knuckles. He can't do days of this in a row. "I get it, you don't like the new coach, you think I can do more. Got it. You're beating a dead horse."

"Your new coach is a pussy, so someone's gotta be straight with you. You can't play like last night and get anywhere in this fucking league."

"How many NHL games have you played, dad?"

"Oh, you're so fucking hilarious--"

"Right. Zero. I'm not a vet like JT, or like Morgan, but I've got a couple of years behind me. So I'm pretty sure I know a little more about playing pro hockey than you do." Mitch dumps his coffee in the sink and drops his mug in with a clatter. It's not enough to break it, but close. "And I'm not fucking doing this with you, you're not ruining another holiday for me."

Mitch grabs his coat and storms out, slamming the door behind him to mute his dad's protests. He's not even really thinking, but he goes home on autopilot and throws a few things in his travel backpack and orders an Uber. On the ride to Pearson he buys a ticket to Vancouver.

Just before he boards the plane, he sends a picture of his boarding pass to Morgan.


	6. Chapter 6

When Mitch touches down in Vancouver a few hours later, there are seven messages from Morgan awaiting him. 

_Wait you changed your mind?_

_Are you on the plane already??_

_Bud you can't even get an Uber here you're gonna need a ride._

_Here you'll need a number to get a cab: 604-871-1111_

_Nevermind I'll just come pick you up._

_Are you on the Air Canada flight? That looks like the right arrival._

_Text me when you touch down, I'll come get you._

There are also two missed calls from his dad, four from his mom, and a couple of pissed off texts from his brother. He ignores those and messages Morgan back instead. He walks down to the pickup spot and it's only a moment later that Morgan stops in front of him.

"Are you out of your damn mind? Why didn't you get a hold of me before you got the ticket?" Morgan doesn't really say hi when he gets into the car. 

"I wasn't planning it. My dad was being an asshole and I just couldn't deal with it, so I left."

"And you flew clear across the country? On Christmas Eve?"

"You said the invitation stood!"

Morgan lets out a sigh as he pulls onto the highway. "Well of course it still stands, you know I wouldn't tell you no. But it was just kind of a shock."

"I just couldn't sit there listening to him rail on me and our team for three days," Mitch admits, staring out the window. "He thinks he knows best but he doesn't really know anything. He just can't ever admit if he's wrong." 

"Well my dad is probably going to want to talk hockey too, but he's more of the fawning fanboy type than the critical hockey dad. He'll probably talk about all five of your points last night in detail." 

"I'm pretty sure I can handle that." Mitch finally glances over at Morgan. "Thank you for this. I needed a normal holiday."

After a moment of silence, Morgan speaks up."Hey, uh. I'm proud of you. You deserve better." Mitch doesn't know what to say, so he just stays quiet. Morgan spares a look his way, and reaches over to squeeze Mitch's arm. "I'm glad you're here."

____

They drive straight to Morgan's parents' house, and Mitch immediately feels bad for pulling him away. "Shit, Morgan, I could've gotten an Uber, you should've stayed with your parents." 

"Actually you couldn't, there's no Uber in Vancouver. And it's not a huge deal, as soon as I told them you were on your way, they were shoving me out the door. My dad is excited to see you and my mom loves having someone else to spoil." Morgan climbs out of the car and waits for Mitch before heading inside. 

Mitch immediately wishes that he'd thought to grab something at the airport, some gift to give to Morgan's parents for sharing their home in the middle of the holidays. He hadn't thought of that, though, so he follows Morgan with a sheepish smile on his face, but no one seems to notice his lack of presents.

"Mitch!" Morgan's mom exclaims, pulling him into a hug. "It's so nice you could join us, Merry Christmas!"

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Rie-"

"I have told you to call me Shirley every single time I see you," she interrupts. "And it's no problem at all, there's always enough food for an army." 

"Morgan told us you might want to come out for Christmas," Morgan's dad explains. "And if you try calling me anything but Andy, I'm sending you back to Toronto." He clasps Mitch's hand in a firm handshake, a warm smile on his face. 

"Well in any case, I appreciate you letting me come, especially on such short notice. Last minute change of plans."

There's a subtle glance shared between Andy and Shirley, and after a moment she fixes him with a sympathetic look. "No need for apologies, let's get you settled in. Dinner is going to be prime rib, but that won't be ready for a while. We've got some snacks around while I'm finishing with dinner."

"He's excellent at washing the dishes, so he'll be happy to help out!" Morgan offers, winking at Mitch when he looks. Mitch subtly flips up his middle finger. 

"I saw that!" Shirley says, but there's no anger behind it. "And you're on dish duty too, Morgan. Take Mitch's stuff up to your room."

"Oh, no, I can just leave it in the car for now, we'll take it to Mo's place later.""

"I just kinda stay here when I visit for Christmas," Morgan explains. "My place is pretty barren during the season. I could take you there if you wanted, though?"

"Nope, not happening," Shirley tsks. "We still do Christmas morning together around here. Connor's flight out of LA was delayed but he'll be here soon. Have you met Morgan's brother, Mitch?"

"I don't think so, no." 

"He works in LA, he's a screenwriter!" Shirley explains, clearly excited about it. Mitch is pretty sure his father has never been so plainly proud of him as she is of Connor. "We weren't sure if he would be back in town for the holiday, but he was able to get away."

"And if you ask Shirley any questions about it, she'll have you watching every single one of the movies he's worked on. In a row." Andy kisses her cheek as she swats him, then nods toward the den. "Why don't you relax a little, that's a tough flight from Toronto."

Mitch takes the bottle of water that Shirley offers and follows Andy to sit down, Morgan joining them a few minutes later. He hadn't realized how tired he was until this exact moment. 

"That was a heck of a game you guys had before the break, gutsy way to come back," Andy says, and he's genuine about it. There's no criticism or breakdown coming after. "It's been a great turnaround for you boys. And it's gotta be especially nice for you, right? After everything…" He trails off and without saying a name, Mitch knows he's talking about the history with Babcock.

"Yeah, I think we needed some fresh blood. It's been good for us." It's a media-friendly answer and he knows it, but he's used to sugar-coating things.

"Or you could just admit that Babs was shitty to you and it's nice to have a coach that stands by you now," Morgan mutters.

"Morgan," Andy scolds gently, then looks back to Mitch. "Not that he's wrong, of course."

Mitch slouches down into the couch, his limbs heavy. It feels like the first time he's relaxed in a while. "He wasn't great to any of us, really. So I think we're all feeling relieved about it. It helps that I knew all along that I had these guys behind me," he says, motioning toward Morgan.

"You're looking beat, Mitch," Andy says when Mitch yawns. "Why don't you go up and rest for a while?"

"No, I'm fine, I was going to offer to help Shirley with dinner. Ask Mo, I'm a darn good sous chef."

"He's _decent_ ," Morgan chirps, bumping his elbow into Mitch's side. 

"He's also a guest. Go on, upstairs. Morgan can show you where everything is." Andy stands up. "We'll take care of dinner, don't worry about it."

Morgan nods toward the stairs and Mitch follows him. Morgan's old room has a closet full of jerseys from all the teams he played for before he got to Toronto, and there's a Canucks poster on the wall. There are a few trophies on the bookcase. And there's one double bed in the middle of the room.

"Sorry, I thought Connor might not make it home, so I figured you could sleep in his room, but since he's on his way, uh. Change of plans." Morgan's fussing with the cord on his hoodie and his cheeks are flushed.

Right. Mitch hadn't thought this part through. He opens his mouth to offer to sleep on the couch, but stops. They're buddies, they're friends. Crashing on a bed together isn't a big deal if he doesn't make it one. It's fine. Mitch is fine.

"Bathroom is just across the hall, towels are in the cabinet to the left of the sink," Morgan continues. "So uh, yeah, grab a nap and by the time you wake up, we'll probably be good for dinner."

"Are you sure I can't help?"

"My mom would never allow that. I'll take over your chopping duties for today."

Mitch starts digging into his bag for a change of clothes and Morgan hovers for a long moment, not saying anything, and the tension snakes its way up Mitch's spine. He almost asks which side of the bed Morgan likes, but before he can get the words out, Morgan shakes out of it.

"Right, I'm gonna go help my mom." On his way out the door, he glances back with a grin. "Don't forget, you're still helping with the dishes."

____

When he wakes up an hour and a half later, stomach growling, Mitch finds a dozen alerts on his phone: texts from his mom and brother, a call from his dad, and a snapchat from Auston. Mitch lets his mom know that he's fine and staying with a friend for the holidays, apologizes to his brother for bailing, and sends a quick snap of one of Morgan's peewee hockey trophies to Auston, but then he tucks his phone in his bag before he goes downstairs. He needs to shut down for a while.

Christmas Eve with the Riellys is a very different event than with Mitch's family. They barely talk hockey at all--Morgan chuckles his way through a story about Dermott pranking Nylander; Shirley asks how JT is handling fatherhood--and instead they talk about everything else. Morgan's brother has stories about working in LA, Morgan asks about Andy's store, Andy makes fun of the neighbor across the street and how he went _entirely_ overboard with his Christmas decorations. 

Shirley rolls her eyes and shoves an extra piece of pie in front of Mitch when he insists he can't eat anything else. Morgan helps with the dishes, which is to say he mostly stands to the side and does a very half-assed job of drying everything when Mitch finishes rinsing. 

There's no fighting but a lot of laughter, and Mitch is pretty sure he doesn't stop smiling the entire evening. 

As it nears midnight, Mitch sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire with Morgan while his parents and Connor sit on the couch. There's a fire going, and the sound of light rain on the windows makes everything feel very calm. He leans back on his hands, breathing it all in, before jolting when a small box is tossed in his lap. He turns it over to find the gift sticker. To Morgan, from Santa. He glances at Morgan curiously.

At his confused look, Morgan gives a sheepish smile. "Tradition, we all open one gift on Christmas Eve. So you're getting one of mine." 

"What? It's your present." Mitch tries to give it back, but Morgan ignores him. "I can't take your gift. I crashed your Christmas."

"I guarantee you that none of my gifts under this tree are worth more than about five bucks. They know I don't want them buying me anything. If you're lucky, it might be a new tie."

Shirley is sitting down after handing boxes to both Andy and Connor. "You're part of the family for this holiday, so you're going to join us for this part too. Youngest always goes first, so you're up."

Mitch glances around at their expectant looks and shrugs a shoulder. "Alright, gift time. I'll just pretend I'm Morgan tonight, I guess." He pulls delicately at the tape on one end of the box and then when Morgan boos him loudly, he rips the rest of the paper off. When he opens the lid he feels his face go red, and he holds the gift up for everyone to see. "I guess Santa knew I needed new boxer briefs." 

Connor and Andy laugh boisterously and Shirley takes a picture of Mitch holding them up, a three-pack of underwear, size large. Mitch hides his face as soon as the picture is taken, chuckling right along with them.

"Pretty sure Santa got the size wrong on those," Morgan chirps, inspecting the package. His ears are red, maybe from the fire, maybe not.

"I can wear large!" 

Morgan arches one eyebrow comically high. "I've got almost 50 pounds on you, Mitchy. No way you can fit in my underwear." 

Mitch thinks very hard about the snag in the rug under the coffee table, how it probably just needs to be pulled back through the underside. He realizes there's a chip in the edge of the glass on the coffee table. He glances at the rain dripping down the windows. He tries to think of absolutely anything other than Morgan, or Morgan's underwear, or _wearing_ Morgan's underwear.

Mitch only half pays attention to the rest of the gifts as they're opened, too busy still wanting the floor to open and swallow him. Connor gets a Canucks t-shirt ("He's a traitor," Morgan insists), Andy gets a tie, Shirley gets a candle that smells like cinnamon, and Morgan opens a trio of argyle socks. 

"Best present was definitely Mitch's, yeah?" Connor offers, and Mitch groans but laughs anyway. He's still blushing, he can feel it, but everyone else is finding it hilarious, so he goes along with it.

"Alright, now you boys don't stay up too late," Shirley insists. "If you aren't up for breakfast in time, there will likely be no bacon left. Maggie might eat it all." As if on cue, Maggie perks up from where she's laying in front of the sliding glass door. "Not tonight, Mags. It's bedtime."

Andy snaps his fingers at Maggie and she follows him upstairs. Shirley kisses Connor's cheek and then bends to kiss Morgan atop the head as she passes. She pauses for a moment and then does the same to Mitch. 

" _Mom_ ," Morgan grumbles.

"Hey, I told him he's family while he's here. Sleep well, boys."

Connor stands up next, yawning largely. "I'm calling it a night too, see you guys tomorrow. Good to have you here, Mitch."

"Thanks man," Mitch replies, slapping his hand against the one Connor is holding out.

Mitch tosses the pack of boxer briefs toward Morgan. "Definitely should've swapped with me for the gift exchange, eh?" 

"Are you kidding? That was the best part." Morgan makes a face, holding them up. "Are you giving them _back_? That's very ungrateful, Mitchy."

"You said yourself, I'd never fit them." Mitch rolls his eyes. 

"I don't know, if we got you on a better workout plan…" Morgan trails off, a devious sparkle in his eyes. 

Mitch huffs, indignant. "My workout plan is fine, thank you very much. Not everyone can have freak-of-nature thighs."

"My thighs aren't a freak of nature!"

"They're the size of my waist!"

Morgan goes from a grin to a full smirk. "Wanna test that?" He shifts up to his knees and shuffles toward Mitch. 

"How are we going to even do that? Do you just have a tape measure handy?" Mitch turns to face him fully, his legs still crossed even if his knees are starting to protest, leaning back on his hands. He expects Morgan to stop advancing toward him. He's wrong.

"Nah, but you're right here, we can figure it out." He's kneeling right in front of Mitch now, sitting back on his haunches, hands on his legs, fingers spanning his thighs. 

"There's no good way to do this," Mitch protests, but his voice sounds tinny in his ears and there's a buzz traveling up his spine. He keeps looking at Morgan's big hands, imagining him splaying those same fingers around his waist to measure it.

Morgan shifts to a seat, his knees up, legs spread with his feet on either side of Mitch's knees. He looks down at his legs, and then Mitch's waist thoughtfully. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, then pulls it between his teeth. He reaches down to wrap both hands around his right thigh. They don't come close to touching, even with his long fingers.

"That's not even a valid measurement," Mitch says, and the buzzing is louder now, thrumming in his pulse. He takes a shaky breath and lets it out slow, steady. When he's sure his voice won't tremble, he leans forward and flicks the space between Morgan's thumbs. "You can't even get your hands around!"

"Well it's a rough conversion, anyway." Morgan slides his hands away from his leg and reaches for Mitch. "It's just an estimate."

Mitch is either really happy or really sad that he's wearing a hoodie, because when Morgan's hands slip to his waist, he can't entirely feel the heat. He swallows once, twice, and he really hopes that it's not as loud as it sounded in his head. "You can't even tell, this sweater is two sizes too big," he says and he regrets it immediately. His words are coming out breathy, strained. 

Morgan looks up from where he'd been focused, his fingers spanning Mitch's waist. He's still biting his lip, the skin white where his teeth press in. He lets out a harsh breath and his grip tightens just a bit. "I guess not, maybe this isn't the best way to compare." 

He doesn't move, though.

Mitch almost blurts it out. _I love you_. The words are on his tongue and the only thing that stops him is knowing that if he fucks this up, he has nowhere else to go tonight. If he's reading this wrong, he's going to end up in that bed upstairs, sleeping next to someone who just rejected him. 

So he fights the urge back, claws through the fog in his brain for some clarity, and he doesn't tell Morgan that he's in love with him. He doesn't say anything because Morgan would probably want to talk about it, would want to clear the air between them. He doesn't say anything because Morgan would feel guilty that he doesn't return Mitch's affection. And that's what would hurt the most, seeing the sympathy on Morgan's face as he explained that he's "flattered, really, I just don't have those feelings for you." Mitch wouldn't even be able to be angry, couldn't even hate him for it, because he knows Morgan would be kind, so kind even while breaking his heart.

"Guess we'll need to try later, get one of the boys to measure to be sure." Mitch says when he's regained some form of composure, willing his voice to stay light, steady. He leans back out of Morgan's touch and pushes up to stand.

Morgan blinks up at him, a deep groove in his forehead. He opens his mouth but Mitch beats him to it.

"We should get some sleep, yeah?" Mitch rakes a hand through his hair and laughs softly. It's forced but it might be believable. He hopes so, anyway. "It's been a really long day and I don't want Maggie getting all my bacon."

He's already upstairs and in the bathroom before he hears Morgan follow him.


	7. Chapter 7

Mitch wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of soft snoring. Morgan is curled on his side, his back to Mitch, and he's still asleep. They didn't say anything to each other the night before, but the simmer of tension remained, and it kept Mitch awake far too late. Between the lack of sleep and the trip across the country yesterday, he's drained, but he drags himself up and out of bed and goes to brush his teeth. 

When he gets back, Morgan is sitting up in bed, rumpled and sleepy-eyed. "Morning, Mitchy," he says groggily, yawning behind his hand. 

"What's the dress code for breakfast? Should I put actual clothes on or…?" Mitch trails off, motioning at the London Knights t-shirt and flannel pants that he's got on. 

Morgan wrinkles his nose. "Do we seem like the type to dress for breakfast? Like, as long as you're wearing pants, you're good."

"Well yeah, I'm not going around your parents' house without pants on."

Morgan smirks and looks like he wants to say something to that, but he decides against it, pulling a hoodie on over his head. "I'm sure Connor will appreciate that."

"Well your parents too, probably," Mitch agrees. As he opens the door to leave the room, he glances back at Morgan. "You've seen me without pants plenty of times. No big deal for you."

He just catches Morgan's eyes widening and his cheeks going red before he goes downstairs.

____

When the breakfast dishes have been washed, Mitch retires upstairs for a shower. He wants to give Morgan some time with just his family, so they can open gifts without him awkwardly watching. Besides, Shirley warned him that Morgan's grandmother would be joining them for dinner, so he has to be cleaned up for that. He didn't bring much in the way of nice clothing, but he at least has a white shirt with actual buttons, and he takes a few extra minutes trying to tame his too-long hair. 

He's just about ready when Morgan peeks into the bathroom. "What are you doing? We're just having dinner here, why are you dressed up?"

"I'm not dressed up, I just didn't want to look like I was homeless or something." 

Morgan motions at himself, wearing a Nike sweatshirt and a pair of distinctly dad-like slippers. "You're gonna look super out of place, bud."

"We can't all rock dad slippers."

"You have _UGG slippers_ , Mitchy. _UGGs_." Morgan reaches over and musses up Mitch's carefully styled hair. "You can't talk shit on my awesome slippers."

"Morgan!" Mitch whines, running fingers through his hair to fix it. 

"Come on, change out of that stuffy button-down and wear a hoodie," he continues as he walks down the hall to the bedroom they're sharing for the holiday. "My grandmother won't even be wearing buttons."

Mitch sighs and follows after him, but he changes into a zippered jacket instead. After a moment he pulls on a backward ball cap as well. He's not here to impress anyone, he reminds himself.

Morgan knows him too well to be impressed by any of this anyway.

____

"Oh my god, Kyle is gonna have me traded for letting you touch a knife." Morgan pushes Mitch to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet in the powder room.

"I nicked it, Morgan, I didn't slice it off my hand." Mitch is holding a towel tightly around his finger. It really is just a tiny cut, even if it's bleeding enough to look far worse. It barely even hurts. "Just get me a bandaid."

"Is he okay?" Shirley calls from the kitchen. 

"I'm _fine_ ," Mitch answers before Morgan can say anything. 

"Come on, lemme see." Morgan is now armed with bandages and a tube of some kind of antibiotic.

Mitch rolls his eyes but pulls the towel away, holding his finger up for Morgan to inspect. Morgan holds his hand and turns it one way and the other. "Okay, it doesn't look too bad."

"I _just_ said that--"

"But we should still bandage it up, so it doesn't keep bleeding." 

"I can handle it, promise."

Morgan barrels on as if Mitch hasn't said a word. He opens up a bandaid and carefully places it on his finger, sliding along the strip to seal the adhesive. "Not too tight?"

"It's a bandage, not a tourniquet." Mitch flexes his hands to test the feel and nods once. When Morgan is still watching him, he arches an eyebrow. "What? You wanna kiss it better too?"

Morgan watches him for a moment and then hisses out a breath, muttering something about Mitch being a smartass as he turns to put away the excessive amount of first-aid stuff he'd gotten out. 

"But, uh. Thanks. For caring," Mitch amends, standing up and punching his other fist into Morgan's shoulder. The powder room is tiny, just big enough for a sink and toilet, and certainly not large enough for two adult men. 

As Mitch turns to leave, Morgan grabs his hand and pulls it up. He keeps his eyes on Mitch's as he presses a kiss over the bandaid. There's no air in the cramped space, at least not any that Mitch can seem to pull into his lungs. He flexes his fingers in Morgan's grip and is torn between running away and stepping closer.

"No more knife duties for you tonight, Mitchy." Morgan offers the barest hint of a smile, then drops Mitch's hand. He slips past Mitch and heads down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving Mitch trying to breathe again.

____

"Morgan, it's so good to see you!" Morgan's grandmother is much shorter than him; she's got round cheeks but is slight everywhere else, but when she pulls him into a hug it looks like a pretty fierce one. 

"I wouldn't miss it, Nana," he responds and returns the embrace, though he appears to be a little more gentle.

Mitch is still in the kitchen, trying to help even though no one wants to let him. Shirley bats his hand for at least the fifth time. "You don't have to help with anything, come on, meet Morgan's grandmother."

She leads him out and immediately, Morgan's grandmother's expression brightens. "Oh, Morgan, you didn't tell us you were bringing a boyfriend home!"

Mitch nearly chokes on the breath he sucks in, and Morgan goes deep red. "No, no, Nana. This isn't like that. This is Mitch, he's a teammate." He smiles sheepishly at Mitch, then looks back at his grandmother. "Just a friend."

And that...well. That makes it easier to breathe, but it still stings. Mitch puts on his brightest smile and extends his hand to Morgan's grandmother. "Hi, it's wonderful to meet you, ma'am. I'm Mitch. I just tagged along with Morgan for the holidays this year."

She rolls her eyes. "'Ma'am,' he says. Call me Nana like everyone else does." She pulls Mitch into a hug that is surprisingly tight. "Any friend of Morgan's is family here." 

"Well thank you, Nana. I appreciate you guys taking me under your wing for all of this."

Nana grabs Mitch's arm and tugs him toward the dining room. "Come on, Mitch, sit by me. It's not every day I get to have dinner with a handsome young man." 

Dinner is as pleasant as the rest of the trip has been; Morgan's family is warm and they include Mitch in everything, even explaining the inside jokes that he doesn't understand. No one argues or raises their voice, other than some good-natured chirping between Morgan and Connor. It's nothing like the holidays with Mitch's family, but he realizes that he could definitely get used to it. 

"So why aren't you home for the holidays, Mitch? We're thrilled to have you, but surely your mom would want to see you." Nana has her gaze turned to him, and it's clear that she's sharp and on top of everything. She seems the type that could see straight through a lie.

"Well there are some, ah, complications with my parents. My dad mostly. Things he expects from me, but sometimes it's a little much, you know?" He twists his napkin between his fingers. "Morgan offered to let me come back with him, and it seemed like a good idea. A little less pressure here."

"Their loss is our gain," she insists and closes her hand over Mitch's. "And if this one doesn't have you all locked up," she nods towards Morgan, who is flushing bright pink again, "well then I'm sure we can find you some other boy. Or girl. Whatever tickles your fancy."

"Nana, stop," Morgan groans, rubbing over his face. "You're not going to play matchmaker for Mitchy."

"He didn't say I couldn't!" Her eyes glint mischievously. "So what is it, boy or girl?"

"Uh…"

" _Nana_." 

She sighs deeply at that, put-upon. "He won't let me have any fun. Doesn't even humor me enough to set him up."

"My love life is just fine, I promise. No worries." Morgan is going to crawl under the table if he slumps down any farther.

Nana looks over at Mitch and grins conspiratorially. "He brings home a cute boy who _isn't_ his boyfriend and swears he has it all figured out. Thinks his old grandmother doesn't get how the whole 'gay' thing works."

Mitch's mind is whirling, but he keeps a smile on his face, going right along with everything she's saying. _The whole gay thing_. Mitch is dying to ask Morgan about it, wants to blurt it out right here at the dinner table, but he knows better than that. He also knows that if Morgan is actually gay, this probably isn't how he wanted to come out to Mitch. So as much as the curiosity is twisting Mitch up inside, he knows he can't say a word. 

____

It's well past midnight and Mitch has stuck by his determination to not ask Morgan what his grandmother was talking about. But that means he's laying in bed next to him, questions running through his head, mind racing; he's never going to get to sleep. He can feel the tension roiling off of Morgan, who's had his hackles raised ever since the conversation at dinner.

Mitch is trying to keep his breathing steady in the hopes that Morgan will think he's sleeping, though he doesn't even have his eyes closed, just staring at the shadows on the wall from the light filtering through the curtains. 

"You're a really shitty actor," Morgan says, barely above a whisper, but it makes Mitch jump all the same.

"Huh?" Mitch asks and even tries to make his voice sound a little rough. He's a perfectly fine actor, thank you.

"You're just as awake as I am. Give it up."

Mitch takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Okay, yeah. Wide awake."

The room drops back into silence for a while, and Mitch starts to wonder if Morgan finally dozed off. "Sorry I didn't say anything before this," he says finally, and when Morgan is nervous his slight lisp reappears. "I wasn't expecting Nana to be so...enthusiastic." 

"Yeah, um. She's animated, eh?" Mitch treads lightly, because this conversation feels very important and he doesn't want to mess it up.

"She just thinks I should be more worried about finding someone, you know?" Morgan shifts on the bed, then shifts again. "And the other thing. The...gay thing. I should've said something before." 

"No, dude. No need to apologize. You don't have to tell anyone, yeah?" Mitch is very proud of how calm he sounds, because in reality he's anything but.

"It sucks having to do that coming out speech every time there's a trade, or someone new signs, so I just kind of stopped doing it years ago. I'm single anyway, I figure if I get a boyfriend I'll deal with it then." Morgan is justifying it, probably more to himself than to Mitch.

"I get it, totally. That would suck to have to do once, let alone a bunch of times."

"Yeah, but I should have said something to you." Morgan goes quiet for a long moment before continuing. "We're friends. I should have told you. I'm sorry."

Mitch hesitates; he isn't sure if this is stupid or not, but he's never been all that skilled at determining what constitutes a good or bad idea. He reaches over until he finds Morgan's hand, then he entwines their fingers. "No worries, Morgan. I swear it."

Morgan squeezes his hand and he seems less tense than before. "Thanks for humoring my grandmother, I know she was pushing you hard on the boyfriend thing. She just really wants me to know she's supportive of me, but you could've just told her you're straight, she wouldn't be offended or anything."

"See that's kind of the thing, though." Mitch almost pulls his hand back, because he knows his palm is sweating. "I'm not entirely...sure?" 

Morgan flexes his fingers and squeezes Mitch's tighter. "No?" he says, and it's so quiet Mitch can barely catch it.

"I thought for a long time I was just straight. I've only really dated women, right? But uh. Lately." Mitch is idly rubbing his thumb over Morgan's hand and he stops himself. "I've been thinking I'm not right about that. I keep, I dunno, wondering about things. People." 

Morgan stays quiet. Too quiet. So quiet that Mitch goes tense. Morgan knows Mitch meant him and he's just trying to find a way to let him down easy. He's freaked out, and they're going to be weird in the locker room now. He won't be able to go to Morgan's place for dinner anymore. Everyone is going to ask why they stopped being such good friends and Mitch is going to have to come up with some stupid lie to cover--

"Can I try something?" Morgan's sudden question jolts him from his panic.

"What? I mean. Yeah, sure. Okay."

Morgan pulls his hand away but then the bed is shifting and in the dim light, Mitch realizes they're now facing each other. Morgan is leaning over him, and Mitch can just barely make out his features as Morgan slides a hand to cup his jaw. Mitch closes his eyes because it seems like the right thing to do. 

And then Morgan kisses him.

The kiss is soft and chaste, but it still steals the oxygen from Mitch's lungs. Mitch hums his approval and leans into it, kissing back, and he can feel when Morgan smiles. The hand Morgan had at his cheek is now sliding around his back to pull him closer, so Mitch follows along, threading his fingers through Morgan's short hair and angling in so their legs are tangled up together. There's no hurry, no urgency. Morgan isn't rutting up against him or pulling at his clothes, and Mitch is fine with that, doesn't feel like he needs it to progress further than this. Morgan is kissing him, and in this moment, everything feels pretty damn good.

Morgan is broad, so much broader than Mitch is, and it makes him feel small; he's not entirely sure he minds that. Mitch darts his tongue out to coax Morgan to deepen things, and Morgan follows the direction well, licking into Mitch's mouth, tipping his head to better fit them together. Mitch lets his teeth graze over Morgan's tongue, and Morgan tightens his grip just this side of too tight in Mitch's hair. Mitch lets out a moan and even though it's quiet, it sounds thunderous in the otherwise silent room, and Mitch is suddenly very aware that Morgan's brother and parents are just across and down the hall. 

He rests his head against Morgan's shoulder, while Morgan pets gentle circles over his back. Neither of them move very far.

"Did that answer any questions?" Morgan asks, his nose buried in Mitch's hair.

And it did. He doesn't wonder whether he's entirely straight; he knows now that he isn't. He also no longer wonders if he's in love with Morgan. He is. Only now he's got brand new questions, ones that he's not sure how to ask.

Mitch sags into Morgan's arms, suddenly exhausted, all the energy drained out of him. "I think maybe it did."

The new questions will just have to wait.


	8. Chapter 8

It feels like Mitch only just closed his eyes when his alarm goes off. But then, he supposes, it's not that far off; he knows it was well after midnight when he had the discussion with Morgan about their sexualities, when Morgan kissed him. Mitch's cheeks go pink at the memory, the feel of Morgan's lips, his tongue. He has no idea what any of it means, if it means anything at all, but he knows he's not going to forget it anytime soon.

Morgan is on his side facing Mitch, blanket pulled up to his ears, burrowed against his pillow. When the alarm blares he grunts something about turning it off, or at least Mitch assumes that's what the incoherent grumbling was. Mitch pats his shoulder before he climbs from bed. "Come on, Mo. Flight at 6:25."

They don't speak much as they get dressed and packed, but Mitch doesn't think anything of it. Morgan is notoriously _not_ a morning person; he'll need at least 20 ounces of coffee before he speaks a word with more than two syllables. They get a cab to the airport and the silence remains, and still Mitch doesn't get worried.

When they're through security and have coffee in hand, sitting at their gate while they wait to board, the stress of it filters through to Mitch. They kissed last night. Made out, really, in Morgan's childhood bedroom. It's probably something they should talk about.

It's something Mitch really would like to do again. Which is something else they should talk about.

"I'm sorry," Morgan says, breaking through Mitch's thoughts. "You're telling me about having questions about your…" he trails off and glances around, his voice dropping, "orientation. And then I go straight to _that_? Kinda shitty."

"It wasn't shitty." Mitch takes a long drink of his coffee. It's too hot and it stings his throat but he needs more caffeine for this. "It was a solid way to answer that particular question. Or at least rule out the whole...straight thing."

"Still, pretty sure that's not how a friend should handle that. So I'm really sorry." He's contrite, the regret visible in the weariness behind his eyes.

Mitch forces a laugh and hopes it sounds genuine. "Worse ways to come to an epiphany than kissing your bro, yeah?" He holds up his fist for Morgan, waiting until he bumps their knuckles together. "No problem, no need to apologize. We're good, yeah?"

Morgan looks relieved, but there's more to it than that. He looks a little sad.

"Yeah, Mitchy. We're good."

____

They go back to Toronto, back to their team and their routines. Mitch apologizes to his mom and brother, but he still avoids his dad's calls. He's not ready for that yet. Mitch doesn't go to Morgan's quite as often for dinner, even if they don't give it up entirely; but Mitch brings Auston along once and another time Freddie is already there when he arrives at Morgan's place. But there are no awkward silences, and neither of them are avoiding the other. Everything is back to normal.

Mitch was worried that the kiss in Vancouver would change things. Now, though, Mitch thinks maybe he's disappointed that it _hasn't_. He isn't going to dwell on it, he insists to himself. Morgan isn't interested in him, not in any romantic way; he couldn't be, not if thins went completely back to normal after a kiss like they had in Vancouver. It clearly didn't affect Morgan the same way, so Mitch has to move on. 

It's late, nearly the middle of the night after a shootout loss to the Jets and Mitch can't fall asleep, feeling antsy, so he downloads Grindr and creates a profile. Then he uninstalls it again within 15 minutes. Even if not for the risk factor of outing himself, he can't say he's looking for a nameless, anonymous hookup.

He wants someone who knows about his strained relationship with his father, who knows when to ask about it and when to leave it alone. He wants someone who'll chirp him for his minimal adult skills. He wants someone who'll have an icing battle with him. He wants someone who'll hold him close and kiss him like he's dying for it. He wants Morgan. Getting over him isn't going to be quite as quick and easy as Mitch had hoped.

In honor of this resignation, Mitch digs out the t-shirt he stole the first time he slept at Morgan's place. If he's going to be lonely and miserable anyway, he might as well wallow in it.

____

"Broken foot. Probably eight weeks out." Morgan is sitting in his stall, crutches leaning next to him, and he looks utterly miserable. It's painful, to be sure, but Mitch is pretty sure he's more upset about losing two months of hockey.

Auston pats him on the shoulder. "You're gonna be missed, dude. You'll be good to go before you know it."

Travis says much the same, as does Zach, and everyone else in the room echoes their thoughts, with JT finishing with something appropriately captain-like about how they'll battle to win for him, and how he'll be rested for the playoffs. Mitch mostly just watches him, though, his obvious discomfort at all of the attention. Morgan catches him staring and a flush spreads over his cheeks; Mitch is pretty sure he's blushing just as badly, but he looks down before he can make it even more awkward.

"It's gonna suck, you know? Gotta keep weight off of it for like six weeks or something. I don't think my knee was this bad in juniors."

The wheels start turning in Mitch's head while he stares down at his socked feet, curling his toes absently in his slides. Morgan is used to taking care of everyone else, but he never really opens up for anyone else to do the same for him. Mitch isn't letting him get away with that, though. 

He's got a plan.

____

"Why the fuck are you up? Go lay down." Mitch bustles into Morgan's apartment as soon as the door is open. 

"You buzzed to come up, so I let you in. What the hell are you doing here?" He look at the bags of groceries Mitch is carrying. "What is all of that?" 

"You're not going to the store with your damn scooter, and you'd rather die than ride one of the cart things. So I brought food." Mitch starts unloading produce and packs of raw chicken and salmon. He knows Morgan's kitchen better than his own, so he knows where everything goes. Once all the healthy, dietician-approved stuff is put away, Mitch pulls out a bag of Doritos and tosses it to where Morgan is sitting perched on the other side of the kitchen island.

"I can't eat those now, I can't do any cardio for like a month."

Mitch rolls his eyes. "One bag of chips isn't going to kill you. And you look grumpy."

"Well I can't even get a shower like a normal person right now," Morgan huffs. "Forgive me if I'm in a _bit_ of a bad mood."

Mitch pulls the bag open and pushes a chip toward Morgan's face. He obediently opens his mouth and takes it, crunching down. "Good. I'll be right back."

"Where the fuck are you going no--"

Mitch slams the door without answering Morgan's question, and he returns moments later with a suitcase and backpack. Morgan is too polite to talk around the mouthful of chips he's working his way through, but he eyes Mitch and his bags curiously. 

"Oh, see, you took care of me when I was hurt. It's my turn. I'm moving in until you're better." Morgan is all ready to protest, but Mitch cuts him off. "You can't even put any weight on your foot for at least a month. You just said yourself, you can't even shower properly. You can't be standing up cooking dinner or doing the dishes."

"But you can't cook, Mitchy." Morgan counters, eyeing him warily.

"Oh but I can follow directions well, as you know." Mitch holds up his phone triumphantly. "I downloaded the Food Network app. They have step-by-step instructions for recipes, with videos and stuff. They're gonna be better teachers than you anyway. What do you want for dinner? Chicken or salmon? I got sweet potatoes, I could bake those or whatever."

Morgan rakes a hand through his hair and groans. "You're absolutely gonna give me food poisoning."

____

Mitch absolutely does _not_ give Morgan food poisoning. He makes some pretty questionable meals, to be fair, but they're just seasoned badly or overcooked, not bacterial. They aren't all awful; he'd even say his baked chicken bordered on 'good.' Morgan ate all of it and didn't make any faces, anyway.

He doesn't seem to mind that Mitch has essentially moved into his guest room. Morgan has even designated a shelf in the pantry for Mitch's favorite snacks. Neither of them mentions what happened in Vancouver, but they're definitely both making an effort to give each other a wide berth. There's still tension, but it's rolling along below the surface and both Morgan and Mitch seem fine with ignoring it.

It's a week into his recovery before Morgan gets _really_ moody. He's hobbling around on one foot in the kitchen when Mitch wakes from a nap, digging in the pantry for god-knows-what and grumbling to himself. Mitch grabs his crutches and shoves them at him, slamming the pantry door in his face. "What the fuck are you doing? Go sit down."

"I'm allowed to move around, Mitchy," Morgan grumbles, but relents when Mitch keeps pushing the crutches at him. 

"On your crutches or scooter, sure, but you're just hopping around. If you lose your balance you're gonna fuck your foot up. Go sit _down_. What do you want?"

Morgan mutters something and Mitch is positive that it's not complimentary but he'll ignore it; he knows how frustrating it is to be dealing with an injury. Morgan isn't really mad at him, he's just the easiest person for Morgan to take it out on. "Like I appreciate that you were trying to keep up with the nutrition stuff while I'm on the IR but would it have killed you to get something sweet?"

Ahh, there's the problem. Morgan's sweet tooth. "Okay, okay you big baby. What do you want?"

Morgan flops himself down on the couch and props his foot up. "Well I _want_ my Nana's double chocolate chip cookies but that's not gonna happen." He's full-on pouting at this point, and Mitch really wants to take a picture of it but he doesn't think Morgan will appreciate him saying how _adorable_ he is like this.

"Good god, bud, I'll get you some cookies. That's all you had to say."

Morgan slumps in on himself, arms crossed over his chest. Finally, reluctantly, he mutters a "thanks."

Mitch gets home from the store later with two different kinds of chocolate chip cookies, plus a mix to make them himself. It does not go particularly well. He forgets to preheat the oven so the first batch is only half-done, still gooey in the middle, and the second batch bake into one giant sheet of burned cookie. While Morgan snacks on the store-bought cookies, he films Mitch's baking missteps and posts the videos to the Leafs group chat. 

"They're _packaged_ cookies, Mitchell." Mitch mutters to himself. "How did you fuck up a _packaged_ cookie mix?"

"So you can't follow basic baking instructions and now you're also talking to yourself?" 

Well if nothing else, it's providing Morgan with entertainment. "First of all, I've absolutely heard you talking to yourself. Fuck off. And secondly, just because you can cook doesn't mean you can critique my baking skills. I don't see you making cookies either."

"I never claimed to be any good at baking, bud. That is not one of my talents in the kitchen." Morgan points a half-eaten cookie at Mitch. "And it isn't one of yours either, apparently."

Mitch defiantly breaks off a piece of his giant sheet-cookie and bites into it. He refuses to grimace even though it tastes just as burned as it looks. "I'm gonna make you the best damn chocolate chip cookies ever, just you wait."

Morgan finishes his cookie and wipes the crumbs from his lip. "I'll believe that when I see it."

____

For the next couple of weeks, Mitch tries out several different cookie recipes, and he realizes very quickly that he knows nothing about how baking works. He completely forgets to add the eggs on one try, and on another he adds a tablespoon of salt instead of a teaspoon. He's convinced he's never going to get the cookies right.

He has an epiphany late one night after he gets home from a road trip. Morgan is already asleep when he gets there--Morgan gave him a key three days into the injury recovery without Mitch even asking for it, so he figures this means he's welcome to stay indefinitely--and Mitch is scrolling Facebook on his phone while he tries to wind down to sleep. Shortly after they got home from Christmas, Morgan's grandmother had sent him a friend request and of course Mitch had accepted. Since then, she has started to like all of his photos and she comments with somewhat inappropriate emojis a few times, but Mitch finds her endearing.

All this time he hadn't thought to go to the source of Morgan's craving, the woman who made the exact cookies he's been wanting. He taps open a window in Messenger and asks her for a favor.

He isn't even a little bit surprised when she replies with a very affirmative and enthusiastic yes.

____

Now that Morgan is halfway through his recovery, Mitch takes advantage of his increased mobility and excuses himself to his own place, explaining that he's got to check his mail and pay some bills. Which he does have to do, of course, but that's not the main point of the excursion. He wants to make Nana's cookies and surprise him, but he can't do that if he's in Morgan's kitchen. He has the recipe, now he just has to make them.

Unfortunately for Mitch, his big epiphany doesn't help very much. 

He's three tries in and he can't get it right. He's been in regular contact with Morgan's grandmother--Nana, if she knew he called her anything else she'd tell him he was a dumbass--and she keeps trying to give him tips, but they still aren't quite right. When she offers to teach him directly on a Facetime call, he jumps at the chance.

"Okay so I have the butter--" Mitch takes two sticks out of the fridge and she immediately groans. 

"No no, it has to be softened butter! You can't make good cookies with cold butter."

"Well yeah, I was gonna microwave it to melt it," Mitch explains, grabbing a bowl for the job. It's glass, but he's pretty sure it's microwave-safe.

She sighs deeply, put-upon. "No, Mitchell, that isn't how you soften butter for a recipe. What you should do is leave it on the counter for an hour or two first, but it's too late for that. Put the butter on a plate and that bowl in your hand? Run hot water in it for a minute. When it's warm, dump the water and use the bowl to cover the butter. It'll be warm and humid enough to soften the butter without melting it."

Mitch follows her instructions and listens while she tells him to prep everything else while he waits for the butter. After a couple of times with the hot water in the bowl trick, the butter is indeed softened and perfect for the recipe. He even bought a stand mixer for this. Morgan had better appreciate the effort.

When he's gotten to the last step and is folding in the dark and semi-sweet chunks of chocolate and she's sure he hasn't fucked it up, Nana starts asking questions. "So you said you're helping Morgan while he's recovering? What a nice friend you are!"

"He helped me out while I was hurt, so I wanted to return the favor." Mitch holds up the bowl so she can inspect and she nods her approval.

"I had no idea cookies were such a vital part of healing a broken foot," she chuckles knowingly and Mitch turns away to grab his cookie sheets which are carefully lined with parchment paper. "Did he ask you to make chicken noodle soup for him? Oh, that was his favorite thing when he was sick back when he was little. Just this sweet pouty face that lit up as soon as I told him I was making soup."

"Oh man, I wish I could see pictures of that," Mitch keeps his eyes down as he uses the actual cookie scoop that Nana insisted he needed to own for these.

"That's how I knew Morgan's grandfather was good for me. When he remembered my favorite foods. That's when you know it's love."

Nana is many things, but subtle she is not. 

"So okay, I've got these all portioned out." Mitch drags the conversation back to the cookies at hand. "You said to set the timer for nine minutes?"

"Check them at nine, if the edges are starting to look golden and dry, pull the cookies out. They're better if they're a little underdone. They'll finish up on the counter." She clears her throat and Mitch looks up. "You're good for him, Mitch."

"Just trying to be a good friend, Nana."

She rolls her eyes but lets him off the hook. "Send me a picture when they're done. And tell Morgan I send my love."

When the timer goes off, just as Nana suspected, the cookies are perfect.


	9. Chapter 9

Three days later, Mitch finally has some time to himself at Morgan's place. The team has a free day, but Morgan has to check in with the doctors about his recovery, which means that he's out of the apartment for a couple of hours. Mitch has the recipe pretty well memorized at this point, and he's thrilled when the first batch comes out smelling delicious and looking like something out of a cookbook, golden-brown on the edges and shiny where the chocolate has melted. 

They're just right.

He finishes them just before Morgan sends the text that he's on his way back, so it gives him time to wash the dishes he dirtied and wipe down the counters. He's arranging the cooled cookies on a plate when the door opens.

"Mitchy, you aren't trying to burn down my apartment again, are you?"

"Well if I was, I was obviously unsuccessful." Mitch takes a quick photo of the plated cookies and sends it off to Nana before turning to Morgan. "How'd the appointment go?"

"Everything's on track. Still a couple of weeks before I can put weight on it again, but they said it's healing like it should." He notices the cookies and one eyebrow goes high. "Wait, you actually did make cookies? And they're not bricks?"

"Geez, bud, give me some credit. I put work into this."

Morgan still looks skeptical. "Are they edible? Have you tried one?"

Mitch rolls his eyes and takes the top one from the pile, eating half of it in one bite. He has to admit, they're really damn good. No wonder Morgan was craving them. "Eat a damn cookie, Mo."

"Fine, but remember that my skepticism is well earned. You scorched pasta sauce _last week_." He picks one up and eyeballs it before taking a bite. He chews thoughtfully for a moment, and Mitch can tell he's trying not to grin. "Okay, so you might have maybe nailed it. Possibly. I'll need to do more research." He grabs another.

"Admit it, this is exactly what you wanted." Mitch pumps a fist victoriously. "Success!"

Morgan rolls his eyes but there's a smile on his face. "Don't get cocky, you're still a better dishwasher."

Mitch tosses a kitchen towel at him and turns to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. "Nana sends her love, by the way."

The statement is met with silence, but there's a buzz of tension in the room now. Mitch is trying for nonchalant, even if he's anything but. If Nana saw through his intentions so easily, maybe Morgan will do the same.

He leans against the counter across from Morgan and takes a long drink of his water. Morgan is eyeing him curiously. "You got my grandmother's recipe for these? Since when do you talk to my grandmother?"

"Nana's my buddy," Mitch scoffs. "She didn't just give me the recipe, she let me Facetime her for tips to get them right." 

Morgan finishes the cookie he was eating and stays quiet for a beat. When he finally speaks, it's quiet, his voice deeper than usual. "Why did you work so hard on these?"

"You were upset, I wanted to make you feel better."

"So you _Facetimed_ my grandmother to learn how to make my favorite cookie?"

Mitch shrugs a shoulder and plays it off. "It's just a cookie." He moves to walk past Morgan, not quite comfortable under his scrutiny. He can tell Morgan is putting the puzzle together, and Mitch isn't sure if he'll be okay with it or not.

Morgan curls a hand around his wrist and stops him in his tracks. Mitch braces his other hand at Morgan's hip to steady him instinctively. He's still not supposed to put weight on his foot. "Buddy you should sit--"

He doesn't even finish the sentence before Morgan has him pushed against the counter, arms boxing him in; even on just one foot, when it comes to strength, he's got the edge on Mitch. His eyes are intense, unyielding, and his voice is strained. "Why did you bake me those cookies? Why put in that much effort?"

Mitch shrugs a shoulder weakly and averts his eyes, even as he can feel his cheeks flushing pink.

When he speaks again, Morgan's voice is barely audible, like his breath is catching in his throat. "Mitchy." There isn't a question this time, and Mitch wouldn't know how to answer anyway.

Before he can overthink it, Mitch leans forward and presses his mouth to Morgan's. His pulse thunders in his ears in the moment that hangs until Morgan kisses him back, and then ratchets up faster as he tries to match Morgan's intensity. The kiss is desperate; Morgan's grip on him is fierce, his teeth close over Mitch's lip and scrape the skin. It's nothing like the slow, sweet thing back in Morgan's bedroom in Vancouver. 

Morgan has one hand fisted in the back of Mitch's shirt and Mitch is gripping at Morgan's hair the same, breathing into each other's mouths in the brief moments between kisses. Morgan has all of his weight on one foot and he angles his other leg between Mitch's thighs to fit them closer together, and Mitch knows Morgan can't miss his dick hardening and he almost pulls away, until he feels that Morgan is having the exact same reaction.

"Wait, wait," Morgan breathes against his lips. "We should sit, yeah?" He glances down at the cast on his foot and Mitch jumps back. 

"Shit, yeah, come on." His lips are warm, roughed from Morgan's stubble.

Morgan grabs his crutches and starts toward the living room, then changes his mind and detours down the hall. "It'll be easier with my leg up, and uh, the couch isn't big enough for us both like that."

"Right. Okay. Alright." Mitch answers dumbly and follows him, trying not to look too eager. He stays a step behind and waits until Morgan is settled on the bed; he's leaning back on his elbows, his legs spread just a bit, and he's not quite in the dead center of the mattress, but there isn't really space for Mitch on the bed unless he's on top of him. And...oh. That was probably the point.

Mitch crawls onto the bed, careful to avoid Morgan's foot, and curls himself in against Morgan, mostly on top of him, cradling his cheek and kissing him again. Slow this time, deliberate, trying to show all the things he's not sure he knows how to say. Morgan keeps a possessive arm around him, but he lets Mitch take over. 

"We should talk," Mitch says finally, breathing the words against Morgan's lips, reluctantly pulling back to clear his head. There's so much to talk about, things they need to figure out, but after waiting so long he doesn't want to stop.

Morgan looks shell-shocked still, but there's a faint smile on his face. "I wasn't sure what it meant, you wanting to be here taking care of me. I thought you were just trying to return the favor."

Mitch rolls his eyes and chuckles. "You know I'm not nearly that altruistic."

"I didn't even think you knew what 'altruistic' meant," Morgan chirps, earning a punch to his chest, though Mitch doesn't put any power behind it. Morgan laces their fingers together and pulls Mitch in tight, so Mitch has to cuddle against him. "So what you're saying is, you had ulterior motives all along?"

Mitch stares down at Morgan's fingers twined with his own, at the calluses that brush over his skin. "I was going to wait until you were asleep one night and steal that throw on the couch." At Morgan's confused expression, he smiles sheepishly. "It smells like you. I like it."

"Is that why you keep stealing my t-shirts?" 

"Ahh, you noticed that?" MItch ducks his head and hides his face against Morgan's shoulder. He feels Morgan's laugh more than sees it.

"You've got like four of them in your laundry now. They're two sizes too big on you." Morgan nuzzles into Mitch's hair and he says the next part much softer. "I like seeing you in my stuff, though."

"I'm stealing your white Nike hoodie next." When Morgan starts to protest, Mitch turns his head to meet his eyes. "Think how cute I'll look, washing dishes in the kitchen wearing your favorite sweater."

Morgan contemplates this and finally presses a kiss to the corner of Mitch's mouth. "I suppose you have a point. I do enjoy keeping you here to do my dishes."

"I have done a lot more than just wash dishes for you lately, buddy," Mitch counters, leaning up on his elbow to smirk at Morgan. "I've been a damn good nurse."

" _Passable_ as a nurse. I haven't even had one sponge bath." Morgan wiggles his eyebrows and his cheeks are flushed.

"Well I didn't realize that was one of the perks of the job."

"We'll add it to the job description." Morgan threads his fingers through Mitch's hair and pulls him down for a kiss, tongue sliding over Mitch's lip and teasing just past. "If it wasn't clear, by the way, I'm very in favor of this new aspect of our friendship."

_Friendship_ is all he hears from that statement. Mitch needs him to know that this is not in any way a _friendly_ thing that he's hoping for. He's been too scared to say what he wants all along, but that stops here. "Okay but just so _I_ am clear," Mitch says, "I didn't make you cookies to expand our friendship. I made you cookies as a grand gesture that I--"

Mitch hesitates now, unsure of himself. If Morgan just wants a friend with benefits, he's going to fuck this up. But if that's all Morgan wants, he's gonna get hurt anyway. Might as well rip off the band-aid.

"I made them because I'm pretty fucking pathetically in love with you."

It takes only a moment, but the smile that curls Morgan's lips moves slowly past disbelief and into elation, brightening his cheeks, shining in his eyes. "You fucking idiot, I love you too."

Morgan hauls him close, arms wrapped tight around Mitch's waist and he kisses him thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize the feeling, like he can't get enough. At least Mitch isn't the only one. He shifts over so he's laying fully on top of Morgan now, nestling between his legs when Morgan parts them. They just kiss for a while, learning how they fit together, getting used to the feel of someone new, even with the familiarity of their existing friendship. Mitch is used to Morgan's laugh but not the little moans that escape him when Mitch digs his nails into his hips. He's been hugged by Morgan a million times, on the ice and in the locker room, but this is new, Morgan's hands spanning his waist, fingertips sliding beneath the edge of his shirt to touch bare skin. It's exciting and thrilling but also comfortable like coming home always is, and he's not sure he'll ever get bored of it.

He's wrapped up in the moment, barely even takes stock of Morgan pulling his shirt off until he's taken off his own as well, doesn't quite realize it until they're skin-to-skin, Morgan solid and a little soft where Mitch is wiry and slim. Morgan touches him with reverence, faint grin on his lips while he traces his fingertips along Mitch's arms, his chest. 

"Come on, Mo," Mitch says, husky and a bit breathless. "You aren't gonna break me."

Morgan cocks one eyebrow, just barely, and then he flattens his palms, rough from years in hockey gloves and gripping a stick, and slides them down Mitch's back, gripping the waistband of his joggers and shoving them down. He arches his hips up and hooks his good leg around Mitch's thigh, an unspoken challenge. This is probably something else they should talk about, the top/bottom thing, but they already had one big conversation today. This one can wait.

Mitch works Morgan's pants down, then his boxers, careful over his injured foot, then sits back on his haunches. Morgan is naked, flushed all the way down his sternum, cock laying hard and leaking up along his hip. His thighs are parted so Mitch can fit between them, and Mitch should move, should start getting him ready, should do _something_. He just wants to look for a while first.

"Mitchy come _on,_ " Morgan insists, fidgeting under his stare. He fumbles into his bedside table and pulls out a bottle of lube and a box of condoms, tossing them on the bed. "You're fucking killing me."

He shakes his head and takes the lube, warms some in his hand and swipes his fingers through it. There are a million questions running through Mitch's head: has Morgan bottomed before? Does Morgan always bottom? Is Mitch sure he wants to be the top here? 

"Okay, wait. Too much thinking. What's wrong?" Morgan is flushed all the way down his chest and his breathing is labored, but he's trying to be patient. He has his Leadership voice on, even if it's strained with arousal. 

"I'm not sure I'm a top. But I'm not sure I'm a bottom either. I've only been with women." Mitch is all at once grasping for answers, but he's also swimming through a thick haze of need while trying to find them. "And I don't know why I need to know this now, I also just really want to fuck you."

Morgan huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes, a fond smile on his lips. "Well those are conversations we're gonna have later, but this is your first time with a guy and I'm injured, so I feel like this is our best option right now. But if you aren't sure and you wanna wait, let's wait."

"No," Mitch interrupts, and for all of his uncertainty, he knows this one thing: he doesn't want to wait. He knows Morgan, he trusts him. "No, I don't want to wait. I just might need you to tell me what to do."

"I'm used to doing that anyway, Mitchy." Morgan pulls him down and kisses him, quick and wet and filthy. "So if you're sure about that wanting to fuck me part, please can we get on with it? Because I'm dying here."

It doesn't happen anything like somebody's first time in a movie: Mitch is worried, hesitant and Morgan is so busy guiding him that he can't relax. By the time Mitch has him opened up and ready, Morgan's dick is lying mostly soft against his hip. Mitch tries to stroke him with his free hand but he's awkward and clumsy about it; eventually Morgan nudges him away and takes care of it himself. Mitch is nervous and his hands are trembling so it takes him two tries to get the condom rolled on, and he tries to push in too fast at first, eliciting a gasp from Morgan that nearly makes him stop entirely. But Morgan pulls him close again and he moves slower now, and this time it's better, this time it's _good_. Morgan sputters when Mitch's hair falls in his face, and Mitch can't stop the giggle that escapes him when Morgan grips his waist right where he's most ticklish. Mitch has to bite his cheek to stop himself from coming embarrassingly quick, and when Morgan's orgasm hits he scratches a welt down Mitch's chest. In the aftermath they're sweaty and sticky and laughing at each other's sex faces.

It's nothing magical, it's not pulled from the pages of a romance novel. It's imperfect, it's funny, it's silly. 

It's real. 

When their breathing slows and they're both cleaned up, Mitch snuggles in close and lets Morgan hold him. "We're gonna need to practice that, eh?"

Morgan smiles against his cheek. "Oh, we're gonna practice a _lot_."

"We'll have to practice like...other stuff too, you know?" Mitch figures now is as good a time as any to discuss the rest of what this is, what it all means. "Because I'm still not entirely sure where I fall on the top/bottom scale."

"Don't worry, I'm looking forward to helping you figure that out." Morgan slides his hand down to cup Mitch's ass in a not-so-subtle promise. "So this is a thing now, eh? Official?"

"I mean, I don't think we should start making out on the bench during games or anything, but yeah. Official. Your grandmother is totally going to give us shit because she called it." 

"Nana has been on my ass since we left Vancouver to ask you out. I kept insisting to her that you're not into me. Meanwhile you're behind my back getting baking lessons. She didn't even warn me!"

Mitch practically preens. "I _told_ you, me and Nana are buds. She wasn't going to rat me out like that."

"Are we okay with telling our families?" Morgan glances down to catch Mitch's eye. "I mean, with your dad the way he is…"

As he trails off, Mitch shakes his head. "I'm not ready for the battle with my dad over that. He's only barely talking to me again after I left at Christmas. But I'm fine if you tell your parents. I might tell my brother too."

Morgan dips his head down to kiss Mitch on the mouth, soft and sweet. "They'll be excited about it anyway. And your dad will come around eventually. And if he doesn't? Fuck him. You deserve better."

Mitch snuggles in close with Morgan, settling in his arms, and he looks up and gives Morgan a smile. "Yeah, I think I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done, just an epilogue left to go now. However I had to point this out down here. So way up there, Mitch talks about stealing Morgan's Nike hoodie? I want to point out that I wrote that line about a month ago, maybe a little more. Probably after seeing the one Instagram live with Tessa, which this gif is from:  
> 
> 
> So then like 2 weeks ago the Leafs posted a clip that included Mitch wearing this:  
> 
> 
> Imagine my utter _delight_ when I went to edit this chapter to post and rediscovered the line about _that exact hoodie_. I control the world, obviously.
> 
> Also hey, thanks everyone for reading and commenting. You're all the best!


	10. Epilogue

Morgan is finally able to put weight on his foot again at the end of February, and he gets a celebratory cheer as he walks into the locker room with neither scooter nor crutches for the first time. They've seen plenty of him in the meantime--he comes to practice with Mitch most days--but everyone is still happy to see him so close to a return. The team needs him out there.

While everyone is chatting up Morgan, getting updates on his condition and return date, Mitch heads out of the room so he can get his skate blades sharpened. After he hands them off to Brian, the equipment manager, he turns to head back down the hall to the room, but Frederik Gauther is standing there, looking concerned. 

"Marns, hey, can we talk a minute?"

Mitch blinks at him but nods, motioning to an empty trainer's room. "Yeah sure, what's going on?"

The minute the door is closed, Freddy turns to him, eyes sympathetic. "Look I know it seems scary but you _have_ to say something to Mo." 

"Hold up, what do I need to talk to Mo about?" Mitch busies himself with the peeling Leafs logo on the front of his t-shirt.

"I mean, I can tell you have feelings for him. I can't believe he hasn't said anything first, he talks about you all the time. And you two are _always_ together." Freddy takes his hat off, brushes his hair back, then puts his cap on again. "I know it's not that easy to just like, tell someone you love them, but I really think he feels the same."

Mitch is pretty sure he hasn't closed his jaw in a full 30 seconds. "Freddy, bud, I appreciate the concern, I really do. But I swear, me and Mo are on the same page here."

"Well yeah, Mo is a great guy and he loves having you stay with him, but if you don't say something you could get hurt. Or _he_ could get hurt, he is softer than you are. It would mess up the room." Freddy claps Mitch on the shoulder. "Think about it, yeah? Even if I'm wrong, Morgan is a good guy. He'll be nice. But I don't think I'm wrong."

"Okay, yeah. I'll give it some thought." Mitch wants to tell Freddy that he's way late on this advice, but he and Morgan had decided when this started that they would wait to tell the team about their relationship. They wanted to give it a test run without their nosy teammates butting in. Apparently they weren't hiding it exceptionally well. 

"We just want both of you to be happy, everybody does." 

"Wait, does anyone else know about this?" Mitch is trying not to freak out but he really hopes the other guys haven't sorted it out yet. 

"I do not think so, everyone is kind of dumb. But I watch things, you know?" Freddy taps his temple, and Mitch knows that he's right. Freddy is far quieter and more perceptive than your average hockey player.

Still, it's only a matter of time before one of their other, less intelligent teammates figures it out.

"Okay, great. I'll talk with Mo. Thanks for saying something."

Freddy gives him a wide smile. "Of course, I hope it goes well."

Maybe someday Mitch will tell him just how right he was about this. In the meantime, he's got to talk to Morgan about everything.

After practice they have a long discussion and they decide that for right now, they're going to keep their secret. The team has been struggling, Morgan's battling to get back from injury in time for the stretch run, and it doesn't make sense to throw that kind of a surprise into the mix. After the season they'll sit the guys down and explain everything. 

For now they just want to get Morgan back in the lineup and the team winning again. They'll deal with the rest later.

____

Every few days, Mitch gets another message from Nana on Facebook, each one with a recipe suggestion: the pork loin recipe she always made for his birthday, the brownies she made for bake sales, the chicken noodle soup that was his go-to when he was sick. He thanks her for the suggestions, but he tries to assure her that he's not really much of a cook, and his attempts at baking stopped with the cookies. She seems undeterred by this information.

Morgan finds her insistence endearing. "Hey, you're taking care of me here. Wouldn't a good boyfriend make me chicken noodle soup?"

"I am absolutely not making homemade noodles, not a chance. I'll be happy to order you some soup for delivery though!" Mitch gives him a broad, sarcastic smile. "Besides, she's only pushing it because she thinks it's going to make you fall in love with me or something. Little does she know, I already figured that part out, so I don't need to work so hard."

"What? You're already done romancing me? Mitchell, I'm offended." Morgan tries to look serious, but he doesn't have much of a poker face. "You could try to woo me."

"Woo you. _Woo_ you?" Mitch turns to face him, incredulous, twisting out of his grasp from where they're laying cuddled on the couch. "Who even says something like that?"

"Hey, sometimes a boy wants to be pampered." 

Mitch rolls his eyes dramatically and flops back into Morgan's side, snuggling in close. "I pamper you _plenty_. Mostly in bed, but still."

"Well I guess that works." Morgan pulls Mitch tighter into his arms, sliding his hand down so he can entwine their fingers. And then he holds out his free hand and takes a selfie of them like that, tangled up together, Mitch's head on his shoulder, their hands clasped loosely together.

"What's that about?"

Morgan doesn't really answer him, but he speaks aloud as he types out a message. "It's okay Nana, you don't have to keep sending recipes. Mitchy won my heart with the cookies."

Mitch groans while Morgan taps the screen to send off the photo. "Oh my god you don't have to tell her we're together."

"Are you kidding me? She's been nagging me just as much as she's nagging you. Besides, she's gonna be thrilled."

Five minutes later Morgan's phone buzzes. It's a Facetime call, from none other than Nana herself. Morgan chuckles as he accepts it. "Hello Nana, how are you?"

"Don't give me that small talk BS, Morgan Frederick. When were you going to tell me you came to your senses about this sweet boy?"

Mitch beams at the compliment, wiggling his eyebrows at the screen. "Look at that, Nana, like he's ashamed of me or something!"

"You two are not allowed to gang up on me here, I'm the only reason you know each other." Morgan grumbles, but his eyes are bright. 

"It's okay, Mitch, you can be my favorite grandchild now." Nana pointedly ignores Morgan's protests. "Maybe we just won't even invite him to Christmas next year."

"Okay, okay. I'm going to hang up now, Mitch has a game tomorrow, so he needs his rest tonight!"

"Hey, it's only 9pm," Mitch argues, mostly because he gets a kick out of watching Morgan squirm.

"Yep, gotta get a full night of sleep, it's vital for a professional athlete." Morgan turns his attention back to his phone. "Love you Nana, we'll talk to you soon!"

"Be good to him, Morgan. You know I'm tougher than I look. Now go ahead, I'll leave you two alone. Love you both." Nana gives them both a big smile and a wave before fumbling a moment to hang up the call.

"How the hell do you get my grandmother saying she loves you on the phone after like a month of knowing her?" Morgan pokes a finger into Mitch's side, right where he knows he's ticklish.

Mitch bites back a giggle and grabs at his wrist. "I will have you know that I am damn charming, _Morgan Frederick_ , and you are lucky to have me."

Morgan rolls his eyes and pulls Mitch's ball cap down over his face. "You're an idiot, is what you are. But maybe I'm lucky to have you. A little bit."

"Aww, thanks babe," Mitch leans over and presses a wet, loud kiss to Morgan's mouth. "I'm lucky to have you too."

____

"What the _fuck_?" Mitch jolts awake, blinking sleepily at the sunlight pouring in the windows, grabbing for the hands that are tickling his sides.

"Your alarm has gone off three times," Morgan says, delighted at Mitch's squirming. "It clearly wasn't going to be enough to wake you."

Mitch glances at the clock and groans, pushing himself up, sleep still clouding his mind. "Fuck, I've gotta shower. Wait, why are you dressed already?"

"First game day in like two months, it feels like fucking Christmas morning." It's early but Morgan is already beaming. Or rather, he's _still_ beaming; he hasn't stopped since he was cleared to play the day before. "Hurry up, I've got a protein shake ready for you, and there's coffee waiting." 

He hasn't overslept that much, but Mitch still rushes through taking a shower and brushing his teeth, and when he's done there's a travel mug with coffee and a shaker bottle with a pink concoction in it waiting for him. "You're the best boyfriend ever," Mitch says after taking a long drink of his coffee, waiting for the caffeine to hit.

"Even on one foot I had you beat. Now I'm fully healthy? Sucks to be you, bud." Morgan wiggles his eyebrows at the face Mitch makes. 

"You were saying _just_ last night how good I am, so I think you're full of shit." Mitch grabs his keys, twirling them on his finger, and then he pauses before he opens the door. He turns and kisses Morgan, slow, maybe a little possessive. Morgan's dopey, curious grin is endearing. "One for the road. Let's go."

____

Mitch walks into the room first and Morgan follows behind on his crutches, into a raucous room that has music playing loudly and chirps being thrown from one side to the other. In other words, Mitch feels right at home.

"What's going on, boys?" Morgan asks, voice loud over the chaos. "Good sleep last night?"

"It's always a good morning when we've got Mo back," Tyson Barrie says from across the room, starting a round of fingersnaps. "Welcome back, bud, you still can't have the top PP."

"Sure Tys, whatever you say, the job's mine again and you know it." Morgan's smile is lit up, infectious. Mitch can't resist watching him. 

While the team is getting changed, Mitch can't help but keep one eye on Morgan. It's not like Mitch isn't intimately familiar with the various parts of Morgan's body at this point, but he still likes to look. Morgan catches his eye and gives him a subtle wink. Mitch feels his cheeks flush and he turns away.

Unfortunately, it appears that someone else was observing that particular interaction.

"Oh ho ho, alright," Zach says with what can only be described as a cackle, standing and clapping his hands together. "Matts, Tys, Kappy, pay up." 

"No fuckin' way dude," Kappy responds as he crosses his arms across his chest.

"Gotta have proof and you ain't got it, bud." Auston nods in solidarity.

"What the fuck are you on about now?" Mitch asks, eyeing them all curiously.

"Proof? You want proof?" Zach puts both hands on his hips, looking at Morgan, then at Mitch, and all of a sudden Mitch is extremely worried about where this conversation is headed. Zach pointedly ignores the panic on his face and holds up one finger to start counting. "Proof number one, have any of you assholes ever seen Mo's dumb guy grin?"

"Hey!" Morgan protests.

Zach points at his face. "That is the dumb guy grin of someone who absolutely got laid last night."

"That's not proof, Mo might've just hooked up." Tyson points out helpfully while Mitch attempts to focus on getting his compression shirt on. 

"True, on its own Mo's dumb guy grin--"

" _Hey_ ," Morgan interrupts but is ignored.

"--may not mean anything, but." Zach crosses the room and holds Mitch's chin between his fingers, turning his jaw to the side. "That beard burn absolutely is proof two. Who else is Marns gonna get beard burn from?"

"It's not bearn burn, my man, I shaved today." Mitch bats his hand away and turns toward his locker so he doesn't have to look at anyone.

"You've got skin like a newborn baby's ass," Auston chuckles. "You won't have to shave for another 10 years."

"And besides, these two gross assholes were both sitting here ogling each other. Didn't even try to hide it. Proof three." Zach sits in his stall, self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Prove me wrong or pay up."

"What were you even _betting_ on?" Morgan asks, and Mitch knows he's going for incredulous but he just sounds panicked. 

"How long it'd take you two dumbasses to figure out you were hot for each other." Kappy grumbles as he tucks a few bills into Zach's open palm. "I thought you'd hold out until after the season was up."

"You guys fucked me over when you didn't figure it out at Christmas." Tyson makes a face and digs into his wallet.

"I said you were both too dumb to ever get it," Auston says. "And Hymie still haven't given us any proof, just circumstantial evidence."

"Oh my god," Morgan mutters, leaning over to start taping his skates.

Mitch turns to look at them, the whole room staring at him expectantly. He catches Morgan's eye and shrugs helplessly. "You're all nosy fucks with no lives. What was your guess anyway, Hyman?"

"Mo's birthday, I thought you'd both get drunk and finally just act on the sexual tension."

"That is not how it happened," Morgan rolls his eyes. "But whatever, fuck off. Hymie wins, he's the closest."

The whole room hoots in celebration as Auston pays up. JT pats Mitch on the shoulder and tells him he's happy for them and Kappy fistbumps him and says he should've held out a little longer; he notices Auston clapping Morgan on the back. It appears that all of their teammates were expecting this for a while, given that not a single one of them looks surprised at the news. How did _they_ realize it so long before Mitch ever picked up on it? They're all idiots. Maybe this just means that Mitch is an even bigger idiot.

But then he looks over and catches Travis and Willy arguing over contestants on _The Bachelor_ and he's pretty sure that's not true.

____

Morgan's grand return to the ice doesn't last very long. They do win that first game back, an important division match-up, but two days later the season is postponed, and suddenly the playoff race seems far less important. 

Mitch hasn't left Morgan's place much since that first kiss, so it's not a surprise that he's there when they receive word that the NHL has told players they can go home for the time being. Morgan doesn't ask him to go back to Vancouver, not in so many words, though he hints at it a few times. Mitch doesn't want to stay in Toronto by himself, and he wants even less to spend an indefinite amount of time with his father, so staying with his parents isn't an option.

Just as Morgan doesn't overtly ask Mitch to go home with him, Mitch is just as nondescript in his acceptance of the non-invite. They're sitting together on Morgan's couch, Mitch's feet in Morgan's lap, and as if it's an afterthought, Mitch speaks up. 

"Hey there's a nonstop from Pearson to Van for like $430, you want me to book us for it?"

The smile on Morgan's face is small, but his eyes brighten anyway. "Yeah, sounds good."

And that's all the discussion that ever happens.

A week later they're holed up alone in Morgan's house in Vancouver at the end of a quiet street, set back from the road with a pool and a yard lined with trees. It's a pretty stark departure from the luxury apartments they both keep in downtown Toronto. The first few days are mostly spent in bed; they might be well over a month into their relationship, but they're still figuring out each other's likes and dislikes, discovering just how they fit together. Mitch has figured out his answer to the top/bottom question (little bit of each, though he prefers the latter), and he definitely enjoys this particular research more than any he ever had to do in school.

As the shutdown drags on and it becomes obvious that it won't be ending anytime soon, they settle into a routine. Morgan sets up a weekly grocery delivery and plans most of their meals while Mitch keeps in contact with the team trainers. They make breakfast together and eat on the patio if it's nice enough, then they go for a run or do a workout at home before sprawling on the couch for a nap. Morgan reads a lot, Mitch spends entirely too much time playing Call of Duty. Morgan usually makes dinner and makes Mitch do the dishes.

It's a much slower pace than the practice/nap/game/travel/sleep/practice schedule that they normally keep, and it's especially noticeable in March and April, when they would normally be gearing up for the stretch run and postseason. Mitch misses hockey, of course, but the break isn't the worst thing that could happen.

The repetition of every day being the same means that Mitch isn't even sure what day it is when his phone rings, his dad's name and number on the screen. He thinks about ignoring it, but he doesn't want to have to return the call, so just before it goes to voicemail he accepts. He barely gets out a greeting before his father starts.

"You didn't have to fly across the fucking country, you know. Your mother is very offended."

"I've talked to Mom every day since we've been on break. She understands why I'm here." He admitted to his mom weeks ago that he was seeing someone. He hasn't yet come out to her, and certainly hasn't mentioned that it's a _teammate_ that he's seeing, but she at least knows there's someone in his life. He figures that after this is over, he'll take her to dinner and come clean about all of it. He told his brother everything before he left for Vancouver.

"Well she's still upset. She would've liked to spend this time with her son." His dad doesn't dwell, apparently not all that broken up about Mitch's absence. "Are you keeping up with a workout routine? You already struggle to keep weight on." 

"I talk to my trainer every day, and the Leafs conditioning guys are giving us workouts. Keefe checks in with us a couple of times a week. Kyle's in touch all the time. I've got plenty of connections to keep me in line while I'm not playing, so I don't really need you keeping tabs too." Mitch rolls his eyes; even if his dad can't see it, just the action alone makes him feel better.

Morgan walks into the room, carrying what is likely his third cup of coffee on the day, and he arches an eyebrow high when he hears Mitch talking.

"I heard you're online doing video game shit all the time, is that really a wise thing to do? What if you say something stupid and lose an endorsement?" Mitch doesn't have a chance to answer before he launches into the next set of questions. "And I talked to your agent, he said Red Bull wants you to do a few spots for them when this is over. Did you sign the deal yet?"

"Jesus Christ, Dad, we're in the middle of a pandemic. I don't really think it matters what endorsements are waiting when I get back to Toronto. And it's not any of your business anyway, neither is my training regimen." At this point Mitch goes fully sarcastic, frustrated at just how predictable his father is. "So as great as it was to catch up, and as much as I can tell you're really worried about how I'm doing, I'm gonna cut this short. This is about as much fatherly pep talk as I can take."

"Mitchell," he starts, condescension clear even from a few provinces away, "I'm only looking out for your career and your future."

"No, you're worrying about how good I can make you look." Morgan's eyes go wide at Mitch's words, but he pumps a fist encouragingly and it strengthens Mitch's resolve. "But don't worry, whether I fuck it all up or win five Cups, no one's going to think you had anything to do with it."

Mitch can't see it, but he hears his father slam his fist down on whatever surface is in front of him. "How dare you? I took you to practices--"

"Mom took me most of the time," Mitch interrupts.

"And I paid for your equipment!"

"And I bought you that BMW you wanted with my first signing bonus, which is easily more expensive than all of my equipment combined." Mitch is getting fired up now, all the resentment of the last few years bubbling over. "But if you wanna write up a bill, let me know and I'll return your investment. Because that's all I ever was, eh? Just an investment to see _your_ name in the paper. If I'm a success it must mean you are? Well you're not. I did this shit, with help from mom, my old coaches, my teammates. You just paid the fucking bill."

Morgan is sitting next to him, listening to his side of the conversation and clapping silently along with every word he's saying. 

"I helped you every step of the way, you ungrateful son of a bitch."

"Anything you did for me was with the ulterior motive of helping yourself. You still think you know better than I do, better than my team does, better than my agent, and you're always wrong. I'm done with it. If you want to be a _father_ at some point, let me know. I'm done with you as a hockey dad."

Mitch doesn't bother to let him respond, he just ends the call, and the tap of the screen feels anticlimactic for as dramatic a moment as it was.

"Holy shit, Mitchy."

"Right?" Mitch answers automatically, and then realizes his hands are shaking. That confrontation was years in the making, and he finally said everything he wanted to say; the adrenaline and anger is still racing in his veins. His phone buzzes and it's his dad again, so Mitch ignores the call and turns his phone off. "I can't believe I did that."

"It's about time, you had every right to call him out." Morgan wraps an arm around Mitch's shoulders and hauls him close. "He's not the reason you're a success. You put in the work, you're the one doing it day in and day out. You succeeded _despite_ him, not because of him."

Mitch rests his cheek against Morgan's chest and lets himself melt into the embrace. He's only half-listening to Morgan's words--he knows everything he's saying, Morgan has told him all of this before--but he can feel the vibration when he talks. His voice is soothing but impassioned as he lays out his defense of Mitch's skill set and accomplishments, and Mitch lets it all wash over him. It feels good to know Morgan is so emphatically in his corner, on his side. 

"I wanted you to get the C," Mitch says suddenly, apropos of nothing, and it stops Morgan in his tracks.

"Huh?" The absolute confusion written over Morgan's features is endearing, and Mitch kisses him before he continues.

"That's when I realized I was in love with you, when you didn't get the C. I _knew_ you deserved it, and I knew you were upset about it, but holy shit, you just put on that supportive face, acted like it wasn't a big deal or anything. And I've never had that much integrity about anything in my life. That's when I knew."

Morgan's face is flushed and he waves off the praise. "Hey, JT has been in the league for a long time, he's a great leader--"

"Cut the media-friendly bullshit, eh? I'm not a reporter."

"Okay, yeah. It fucking stung." Morgan sags a little, lets out his breath on a _woosh_. "Like I knew it was probably a long shot, right? But I knew there was a chance, and I knew I could handle the responsibility. I know what that C means. So I thought with all the years I put in that maybe it gave me an edge. It was so fucking hard to keep a smile on my face."

Mitch curls closer into his arms, practically sitting in his lap now. "But you did it. You put the team ahead of your own feelings. That's what captains do. Letter or no."

Morgan is quiet for a while, contemplative. "Halloween," he says suddenly, and at Mitch's raised brow he explains. "When I dropped you off you were leaning in the car, practically falling over. I wanted to kiss you, awful Ernie costume and all. I knew I had it bad then."

"I would've let you." Mitch laces his fingers through Morgan's, thinking back. He was pretty drunk that night, but he remembers that part vividly. Remembers Morgan's eyes on his. "I'd have let you kiss me, and then I would've invited you to come inside."

Morgan runs his thumb in slow circles against the back of Mitch's hand. "I might never have left your place if you had. And that's too bad. My place is way nicer than yours."

"What?" Mitch sputters, trying to sit up, but Morgan holds him in place, a chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. "My place is great."

"You have like five things in it, and your mom bought all of them." Morgan nuzzles his nose into Mitch's hair and brushes his lips over the shell of his ear, his voice dropping low. "Besides, you spent most of this season staying at my place, so you obviously agree."

Mitch shivers when Morgan's mouth dips to the sensitive spot behind his ear, along his hairline. It's an utterly unfair tactic; Morgan knows Mitch can't concentrate like this. "It's not about your place, dumbass, it's because I wanted to be with _you_."

"Well if my place isn't good enough, I guess I could just come and stay at yours next year," Morgan offers, lips skimming Mitch's throat as he speaks. "Or we could just get a place together."

"Mm, moving in together is a pretty big step," Mitch counters, but the argument is weak, considering it comes out on a breathy sigh.

Morgan opens his mouth over the curve of Mitch's shoulder, sucking softly at his skin. "I guess that's true. So you could just stay with me for the summer as a test run?"

"Gotta make sure you don't get sick of me," Mitch says, turning in Morgan's arms so he can straddle his hips. 

The gaze Morgan sweeps over him nearly sets Mitch ablaze, and when he finally meets Mitch's eyes his grin is equally as fond as it is seductive. "I'm pretty sure that's not gonna be a problem, Mitchy. But I'm game to find out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to the best beta in the world [BananaStickers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananastickers) for helping me get through this. My writing is much better with her help. 
> 
> Thanks for going on this ride with me, everyone, for all the comments and kudos and views!


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